


not a romcom movie

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Lieutenant Duckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:15:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I’m not interested in being made the butt monkey of the school, or being some social experiment where you’re trying to have me elected prom king or what have you, until we realise we’ve been falling in love all along and have our first kiss on an Adele song. Not interested. Savvy?”<br/>“I – I’m not planning to fall in love with you.”<br/>“Good. Neither am I."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“This is boring. I’m bored.”

Skirt hiking up her tights and tank top folded up to reveal her flat stomach, Ruby looks the perfect cheerleader cliché as she lies on top of the picnic table and basks in the September sun. Emma looks above her shoulder to share an amused glance and an eye roll with Mary Margaret over the brunette’s body, before leaning against the table once more, hard wood biting her back as she crosses her legs and looks around her.

First lunch break of the school year and nothing has happened yet. No wonder Ruby is bored out of her mind. Even as the brunette works on her tan while waiting for the cheerleader tryouts, she keeps complaining about how quiet the school is, reminding them of all the events of the previous year – David and Kathryn breaking up, Victor sneaking in the chemistry labs, Gold’s hilarious speech when he’s started stuttering at the sight of Miss Belle, the French teacher.

“And now,” she adds, with a hand gesture for emphasis. “Nothing. Nothing  _at all_.”

Mary Margaret humours her with a “Poor you” that has Emma snicker – how much sarcasm the petite girl can pour in only two words is just impressive. Little does she know, that sound out of her lips is all Ruby needs to latch onto her, grabbing her arm and tugging like a damn five year old. (Ruby is a five year old all right, and Emma will never understand how she was deemed trustworthy and responsible enough to be offered the title of cheerleader captain.)

“Emmaaaaa. I’m bored. Do something.”

“What, I’m your dancing monkey now?”

She doesn’t need an answer to that question, but Ruby gives an obvious “Well, yes” anyway that has the blonde roll her eyes once more. She has to admit Ruby has a point, though, this day has been uneventful so far, so unlike any other year – Storybrooke, Maine: peaceful town, crazy high school. Everything is quiet now that one Nolan twin is dating Mary Margaret and the other gone to military school, and even Victor has fallen on the right side of the law since he started being – whatever he and Ruby are, Emma doesn’t want to know the details. And yes, this is boring to Emma, who feels like the third wheel with both her best friends.

(She doesn’t want to think about Neal. She  _won’t_  think about Neal.)

As if privy of her thoughts, Ruby suddenly forgets her sunbathing moment to sit next to Emma, all sparkling eyes and wolfish grins. “We need to find a new toy boy for you.”

“Ruby…” she starts, just as Mary Margaret says, “Ruby, leave Emma alone.”

But Ruby, unsurprisingly, has none of it, already scanning the crowd in front of them in search of her new victim. There is nothing new about that – her desperate trying to find the man of Emma’s dreams, or whatever – but Emma doesn’t really feel like humouring her right now, not when the wounds of her summer are still very much opened and raw, when the tears are still itching at the corners of her eyes when her mind wanders a little too far for a little too long. She just wants to stay single long enough to lick her wounds – too much to ask, apparently.

“Ahah! Him!”

Ruby points someone excitingly, and Emma already dreads the worst (read, football team) as her eyes travel from Ruby’s finger to where the finger is pointing.

She blinks.

There, next to the lockers, stands no other than Killian Jones in all his nerdy unkempt glory (no). Not exactly facing the wall of lockers, probably to see if someone is coming, he stuffs his books in his locker with a speed that makes Emma sad – one that all the bookworms share, one that screams  _bullied_. She has never really understood why, because he looks quite the handsome type if you forget the geeky shirts and big glasses. He could be one of the popular guys in school if he felt like it – which he doesn’t, and Emma doesn’t get it because why  _wouldn’t_  you want to be popular? People like you, and are nice to you and smile at you in the corridors and say all those nice things about you.

Or maybe it’s just her.

“Jones? You want me to date  _Jones_?”

Ruby raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow at her, smug proud on her lips and arrogance in her voice as she replies, “What? Not up to the challenge the virgin king has to offer?”

(“Now you’re just being mean,” dixit Mary Margaret.)

This is stupid. They haven’t played that game in ages, especially not sober and _especially_  not with misfits minding their own business. But Ruby smiles at Emma that way, the one that brings out her competitive side (or her bitch princess side, depending of the point of view). Because, yes, Killian Jones is pretty much the ultimate challenge in town – he has never dated anyone, never even kissed anyone if the rumours are to be true, hence the beautiful (awful) nickname – and Emma finds herself curious and a little drawn to him.

(He might be just the distraction she needs.)

“Okay,” she says, ignoring Mary Margaret’s complains and Ruby’s cheers as she stands up and ruffles her hair. “Okay, let’s do this.”

He’s sticking his timetable to the door of the locker by the time she comes near him, and so she leans against another locker, arms folded against her chest, and watches him do. His body stiffens in acknowledgement of her presence, but he doesn’t look at her, instead focuses on the task ahead. Emma almost wants to roll her eyes, because no one, ever, simply ignores her for the sake of it, but she forces a smile on her lips and in her voice, almost too cheerful.

“Hey, Killian!”

That makes him glance at her, eyebrow rising in surprise. “You know my name,” and it sounds neither like a question nor a fact.

“Of course I do. We’ve been in the same class since kindergarten.”

“And you’ve been ignoring my existence since kindergarten.”

Well, that stings, because surely they must have talked at least  _once_ , like that one time when – she doesn’t manage to come up with anything. Which, weird okay, because she’s certain she’s always been nice to everyone in her class and she doesn’t like her memory failing her, even if it’s just a smile at a borrowed pencil or a ‘thanks’ at being given a book. But no, nothing, and it upsets her more than it should because how can you spend that many years with someone without speak to them, not even once?

You can’t, that’s it.

“Well, I’m not ignoring you now, so…”

He (finally) stares at her for a couple of seconds, blue eyes hard yet confused, then looks at the table where Ruby and Mary Margaret are still sitting, not so subtlety staring back, then stares at her again with a frown.

“Not interested.”

And he goes back to whatever he’s doing in his locker, leaving Emma gaping and burning holes in his neck. Her cheeks burn red with embarrassment – she just got snubbed by a nerd, the absolute disgrace. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, dark and hollow, as he shoves a book in his bag and throws it over his shoulder before closing his locker a little too forcefully. When he faces her again, she notices how tall he actually is – he slouches, apparently on purpose – as she has to look up if she wants to meet his eyes.

“Listen, Swan, you seem nice enough if the rumours are anything to go by. But I see there’s a bet of some sort going on with Lucas right now. So I’ll save us both some time by saying I’m not interested. I’m not interested in being made the butt monkey of the school, or being some social experiment where you’re trying to have me elected prom king or what have you, until we realise we’ve been falling in love all along and have our first kiss on an Adele song. Not interested. Savvy?”

She blinks up at him, stunned into silence. “I – I’m not planning to fall in love with you.”

“Good. Neither am I.” He tightens his hold on the strap of his bag. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a World of Warcraft tournament to attend.”

It takes Emma long seconds after he’s gone to realise he was opening mocking her.

(Well, at least she thinks he was.)

…

“Dude, are you fucking kidding me?”

Liam points at him with his bottle of beer before taking a long swing, and Killian can only groan in reply, dramatically letting his forehead fall on the cold granite of the kitchen island. (He mouths a “ow” because he managed to hurt himself in the process, he’s just a moron that way.)

“Like, seriously, bro, you were in love with the girl before you even knew what love was.” His brother, the poet. “And now that she’s taking an interest in you, you’d rather reject her than bang her. The fuck?”

His brother. The  _poet_.

“She’s not interested in me. She’s interested in that stupid bet with Lucas. It could have been that Anton guy and it would have been the same for her.”

What Killian doesn’t say: he’s been in love with Emma Swan since he was seven, the way you love the sun. Beautiful and perfect from afar, but he wouldn’t venture too close because he’d rather stay alive, thank you very much. He doesn’t feel like been some sort of modern fucked-up Icarus, burning his wings for a girl who will never love him back, who will never see past the geeky persona through the tinted sunglasses of her own privileges.

Nothing about him is worthy of the princess anyway, not his reputation and definitely not his bank account (or rather, lack of one). She’s at the top of the social food chain, and he’s so at the bottom he’s planning to dig a tunnel to China at that point. And he’s right in what he told her: life isn’t a romantic comedy she watches with her girl friends during slumber parties, and it’d be stupid of him to believe otherwise.

“Yeah, I get that,” Liam replies before taking another swing of his beer. “But isn’t spending time with her because of a bet better than nothing at all? The way I see it, it allows her to know you better and to see the real you. And maybe then she’ll want to spend time with you for you, not because Miss Cheerleader told her too.”

Yeah, he hadn’t thought about it that way.

“Liam, when did you become so clever?”

“Just trying to get you laid, bro.”


	2. Chapter 2

The blonde tornado strikes after first period.

Which, really, Killian should have expected, what with the girl’s reputation and all. Still, he almost jumps out of his skin when she appears at his side all of a sudden, grabbing his arm with both of hers and throwing a gleeful laugh his way.

“So you’ve heard,” he deadpans, forcing his arm up so he can open his locker and grab a few books before his English class in five minutes.

“Of course. Everybody has!”

Something between a groan and a sigh escape his lips as he lets the book fall into his bag before turning to the little blonde. She’s exulting, of course, in that I’m-totally-the-modern-version-of-Emma-Woodhouse way, with bonus grin from ear to ear and bouncing on her feet. She’s probably already planning a hundred different plans of actions for him to get the girl, and Killian doesn’t want to hear a single one of those plans – he’s seen how messy things got when Regina started dating that guy who already had a girlfriend because Tink had convinced her to.

Thank you, but no thank you.

Not that his opinion matters much when Tink is involved, he learnt his lesson years ago. She holds on to his arm, tugging and tugging until he gives her his full attention – and she will get him late to his next class, the little minx.

“Where are you bringing her on your date? Do you know how you’re going to propose? Have you named your children yet? I know you haaaave.”

This is beyond ridiculous at this point, her singsong voice a little too loud to his liking – if people didn’t know already, they sure are now – and yet Killian can only laugh at his friend’s excitement for him.

Which may or may not be a sad statement about his boring life, come to think about it.

“There is no date to speak of, Tinker Bell.”

She scoffs and gives him a sideway glance only to scoff again seconds later. The girl knows him all too well, she’s dangerous that way.

“Yeah, _right_. Tall, dork and Irish finally noticed by the golden princess? Come on, you’re too big of a romantic sap for it not to happen.”

He rolls his eyes, if only to show her that she _doesn’t_ have a point (she really does) before walking towards his next class. Unsurprisingly, Tink’s weight slows him down, her shoes squeaking as he drags her along with him before she decides to use her legs like a normal human being. She still holds on to his arm, though, and Killian knows she will only let go when she gets what she wants – he wonders what he did in a previous life to end with so many stubborn people around him.

“Come _on_ , Killian. I’m your best friend. Just _tell me_.”

He looks around him quickly – people minding their own business and not eavesdropping the two weird misfits – before leaning to whisper in her ear.

Tink’s excited giggle is all the answer he needs.

 

…

 

The blonde tornado strikes during lunch break.

He’s taken a habit of hiding in the far corner of the library, where no on ever goes because the lightening isn’t good and it’s where they keep the maths books anyway. But, as it turns out, it isn’t that good a hiding place, as she finds him all too easily.

Killian is in the middle of his sandwich and his reading of Lewis Carroll’s biography (creepy dude), getting a head start on the essay they were given that morning, when she plops down on the seat next to him. He’s that close to yelping, and it’s a miracle if he manages to swallow down the sound because, bloody hell, that was unexpected.

(He kind of choke on his sandwich, too.)

Emma leans forwards with her arms folded on the table, high ponytail still swaying behind her, eyes shining. She used to wear glasses up until a few years back and, now that he can take a close look at her, Killian notice the borders of the contact lenses around the vibrant green pupils. She’s _too_ close, actually, his heart beating faster for something that has nothing to do with the fear she gave him seconds before.

She’s here, and it doesn’t mean any good.

So he does what any sensible guy would do – he goes back to his reading of Lewis Carroll’s disturbing photo sessions with Alice Liddell and pretty much ignores the blonde sitting there and fluttering her eyelashes are him like it’s a freaking game. Which, of course, doesn’t seem to please her as she clicks her tongue and looks around her with a frown. It is only a matter of seconds before–

“So, what are you doing?”

Killian fights back a smile – how very predictable of her – before showing her the book he’s reading with further explanations. She’s a clever lass, she can connect the dots on her own.

“ _Seriously_?” she says, and it’s a little breathless, verging on confused. “It’s only three pages long and due in two weeks. That’s the kind of essay you do the previous night.”

_Aye, for folks like you_ , he wants to reply, but settles for raising an eyebrow instead as he closes the book a bit too dramatically. Truth is, he couldn’t write an entire essay the previous night to save his life, needing to triple check every fact and do some intense researches on the subjects and basically read too many books in a short period of time. He’s anal that way.

(University is going to be so much fun.)

“What do you want, Swan? Because it surely isn’t my company.”

There’s a look in her eyes just then, one that hits a little too close to home and takes him by surprise, but she snaps out of it before he has time to decipher whatever emotions he sees dancing behind her green pupils. Instead, she rummages through his pencil case and starts playing with two paper clips she finds there, linking them together over and over again. The motion of her fingers almost looks nervous, which can’t be right – Emma Swan doesn’t do nervous, ‘confidence’ is the only word in her vocabulary.

“We haven’t planned our date yet.”

He wants to groan and hit his forehead against the table. So he does just that, ignoring the part of him that has his heart beating faster at the sheer idea of spending time with her, alone, outside for school. Because this isn’t about him and, no matter what Liam said last night, never will be. He admires the stubbornness, thought, and would admire it even more if it had nothing to do with him.

Alas…

Forehead still pressed to the cold wood of the table, he turns his head even so slightly to glance at her. Emma looks back with raised eyebrows of her own and a curious gleam in her eyes – he hasn’t spooked her with his awkward dorkiness yet, but it will happen shortly. It always does. He doesn’t look forwards to it.

“Poetry reading? Evening at the comic book store? Oh, how about an hour or two at the arcade?”

The curiosity on her features turns into a frown, lips pursed into the kind of pout he just wants to capture with his own mouth – eyes lingering there for a little too long before they meet hers again. She looks pissed, somehow. He guesses ‘shortly’ arrived sooner than expected after all.

“Stop doing that.” He offers her a questioning shrug and shake of the head, to which she replies, “Stop putting yourself down because you’re not like those jocks playing fetch in the stadium.”

She takes him aback, to say the very least, and he sits straighter once more, only able to stare at her for long seconds. Those very same jocks she dated through the years, like it is always expected of pretty and popular girls like her – her cheerleader friend made it through the whole football team, if Tink’s babblings are to believe, not that Killian cares much about it. Still, for Emma to put those guys down so easily… Aye, he did not see that coming.

(His heart does _not_ flutter suddenly and it does _not_ beat faster with hope. That’s just ridiculous.)

Better change the subject before he makes a fool of himself; the maths section of the high school library isn’t the best setting to profess his undying love to the girl in front of him.

“What’s the bet anyway?”

She’s the one to be caught by surprise this time, eyes a little wider and mouth forming a pretty ‘o’ before she replies. “Yeah, well… Fifty if we date until Christmas, a hundred for prom night.”

That’s – not what he expected.

“A hundred bucks? It that all I’m worth to you?”

A meaner person would have told Killian he isn’t worth anything – Emma Swan may be many things, but mean she is not, and so she only crunches her nose in reply. Perhaps she too knows how ridiculous the whole thing is, or just how cheap her friend is. None seem to be good enough reasons to stop things before they even begin, thought, which he may or may not be grateful for. Killian hasn’t decided yet.

“I didn’t want anything at first, but Ruby insisted on some kind of payment... She insisted on a lot of things, actually… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”

She stands up, ready to leave and call it a day. He should let her, if only so this crazy story could end already, everyone going back to their own little boring lives with their own groups of friends. But of course he doesn’t, grabbing her wrist instead.

His eyes go wide when he realises they’re touching, breath itching at the back of his throat – it’s all so pathetic, the things she does to him by just being her, he wants to slap himself out of his unrequired puppy love. But her eyes are wide too, and she sits back with slow, cautious movements.

“Let’s start with Christmas, shall we?” He hopes his grin doesn’t turn him into the Cheshire cat, because he can feels himself falling into madness at that very moment. This is _such_ a bad idea. “Far be it from me to let you lose that bet without a fight.”

Her fluttering eyelashes turn him into the romantic sop Tink had accused him of being only hours before, pink high on his cheekbones by now.

“You’d be ready to date me just for the heck of his?”

_I’d be ready to go to the end of the world for you._

“Your company is a cross I’m willing to bear if it means ruffling Lucas’s feathers.”

A beautiful lie, but one she believes if her nod and little pout are anything to go by. And that’s about it, he thinks, just a nod to make things as official as they can get. Killian doesn’t believe his luck (or is it luck, really?) but knows there is still work to be done before she sees more in him than a hundred dollars and annoying her best friend. It will need time but, well, Christmas is four months away from now.

And Killian Jones is a patient bloke.

“Saturday okay with you?”

She asks it so simply, like talking about the weather or their next history test, that it dawns on him how surreal this thing is. He’s dating her. Him, Killian Jones, invisible nerd, is dating Emma Swan, princess extraordinaire, for a stupid bet. What even is his life?

“Aye. Yeah. Fine.”

“Okay. Cool.”

_Awkwarder_.

One final, determined, nod before she puts the paper clips back in his pencil case, grabs her bag, and stands up to leave. He just blinks up at her at first, neurons not quite finished with making the right connections just yet (and he knows it will take some time for that to happen).

“Swan,” he says before she has time to escape and vanish by the other side of the bookcase.

She stops, looks back.

“Can I have your number?”

Her smile is dazzling, all white teeth and sparkling eyes, and Killian forgets how to breath for a second because – _wow_. She comes back, holding her hand to him, and their fingers brush when he gives her his phone. She type in her number quickly and, since he apparently entered another dimension without meaning to, takes a selfie for her contact picture with an exaggerated wink and grin.

“See you on Saturday,” she whispers as she gives him the phone back, and he swears she sounds teasing or, dare he say, even flirty.

What. Even. Is. His life?


	3. Chapter 3

She doesn’t see much of him for the following two days – just a glance around the corner and the flash of a smile during lunch break – and Emma isn’t sure she wants to be relieved. Sure, their little tete-a-tete in the library, for all intents, didn’t leave the walls of the library, but Emma doesn’t know if they’re already dating or – whatever the hell she’s supposed to label this mess.

Truth is, she didn’t expect him to go with it. Not after the way he’d rejected her on that first day. She’d already been ready to tell Ruby she had won, embarrassed with the idea of even wanting to use someone like that, but he had taken her by surprise and accepted.

Truth is, she doesn’t know how to act around him, and is glad for that short break away from him. All her boyfriends – or whatever passes as a boyfriend these days – had been too busy going to second base with her to really care about anything else.

But Killian is one of the smart ones, and she’s out of her depth with him. Not that it matters much to her. But, hell, if he’s going to spend at least the next four months stuck by her side, she doesn’t want him bored out of his mind. She’s not enough of a bitch for that.

So while she’s racking her brains over how to girlfriend, she’s happy to just wave at him from one side of the hallway to another. People haven’t caught up on things yet, so she enjoys it while it lasts.

She’s in the middle of a French class when her phone buzzes in her pocket. Emma elects for ignoring it at first, but curiosity always killed the cat.

_Hopper is making a fuss over the Cold War like there’s no tomorrow. Please, get me out of there._

Unknown number. She frowns.

_Jones?_

The reply arrives a few seconds later: _The one and only._

_i should have known. no1 else would use proper syntax in their texts_

_Now you wound me, love._

_But seriously, no dashing rescue to get me out of this misery?_

She bites back a smile – gosh, she will not smile for this idiot who may or may not be her boyfriend – before texting back.

_ur on ur own buddy_

He only sends her a broken heart emoji and – yep, she’s definitely smiling.

“Emma.” Miss Belle’s voice startles her out of her thoughts, and she looks up at the teacher with wide eyes, cheeks turning pink with the shame of getting caught. “You know the rules. No texting.”

Miss Belle isn’t cruel enough to take the phone away though, and Emma slips it back in her pocket.

 

…

 

They agree on 9pm the following day, and Emma’s clever (or stupid) enough not to ask why so late.

She doesn’t go too crazy over the outfit and make-up – it’s only the first date and it’s not even real so why bother – which means she’s ready way too early and has no idea what to do in the meanwhile. (She finds herself watch cat videos on YouTube because, well…) The doorbell still manages to startle her, though, and she checks her reflexion in the mirror one last time before going downstairs.

Her foot is on the last step when she hears him say, “Good evening, Mister Booth.” There is a pause, before he adds, “Yeah, I know…” and Emma has to bite back a laugh just imagining Marco’s face.

Poor him, he’s too old for that kind of thing.

That’s of course the moment August chooses to appear in the doorframe of the kitchen, still wiping a plate and definitely frowning. “Why does it look like Killian Jones is picking you up?”

She offers him a half-hearted shrug. “’Cause he is.”

She misses August’s hilariously astonished face as she finally makes her way to the front door, grabbing her jacket along the way. Killian smiles when he sees her. (He wears jeans and a simple t-shirt, and she suddenly feels overdressed in her skirt and heels – but oh well, it will have to do.)

She kisses Marco’s cheek and says, “I’ll be back for midnight.”

“Eleven thirty,” he replies – it’s so obvious he’s out of his league, because she doesn’t usually ask for a curfew, just comes and goes as she pleases. It doesn’t stop Killian from nodding politely though, just as lost as Marco in that moment.

Emma follows Killian down the lane – his hands are in his pockets, like he doesn’t know what to do with them, and it’s cute – only to gape when she sees his car. Or, rather, his pickup, black and huge and rusty. Whatever she expected, it wasn’t _this_.

“Welcome aboard the Jolly Roger,” he says with some kind of breathless laugh as he opens the door for her. Emma doesn’t know what alarms her the most – the car naming or the chivalrous attitude. “It’s my brother’s but, well, it’ll do the job tonight.”

She doesn’t ask, she specifically doesn’t ask the hundred questions crossing her mind just then – instead she thinks _you’ve made your bed, Swan_. Even more so when they drive out of town, ruling out all the theories she had about their date and instead wondering if he has lost it and is now planning to murder her in the woods. But he stops at the edge of old Zelena’s field – Emma wonders if the hag will throw her twelve cats after them if they dare trespassing – and gets out of the car, and so she follows.

“Will you finally tell me what we’re doing there?”

That’s when she notices all the pillow filling the truck, as well as a few blankets, and Killian doesn’t particularly replies but nods towards the sky. The sun isn’t quiet set yet, the sky turning into shades of purples and navy blues, but a few starts are already peeking out, shining bright despite the dusk.

A smile curves up her lips.

“You’re such a nerd,” she says, nudging his shoulder playfully, and it doesn’t sound like an insult.

He grins back. “I also have hot chocolate and cookies, if you want.”

Stargazing and breakfast for dinner. That may be the cutest date ever, if she’s honest with herself. So she agrees and climbs on the truck only to find a comfortable place among the pillows and to drape a blanket over her legs. (The skirt was _such_ a bad idea.)

They nibble on some cookies and tell each other about their week. Killian even makes her laugh in his retelling of the infamous history class of the previous day. His American accent is the worst, which adds to the hilarity of the whole thing, and she chokes on her hot chocolate at his impersonation of Professor Hopper – it surprises her in how _easy_ the whole thing is, like they’ve been friends for years and it’s natural to speak about school with him in the middle of an empty field.

They settle more comfortably among the pillows as time goes by, until lying next to each other. The sky is clear tonight, no a cloud to be seen, the stars visible by now. That’s the thing about a little town in the middle of nowhere, Emma thinks almost gleefully – no pollution to speak of and the most breathtaking view one can get for that kind of activity.

“Okay. Impress me with your knowledge.”

He laughs softly but humours her anyway. (As if they were there for another reason.) “You know the Big Dipper, of course. It’s the easier one to find.”

He guides her through each constellation, and associates a Greek myth to every one of them. His voice is soft and lilted, and Emma finds herself hanging to his every word. Killian is both passionate and interesting, which never hurts – she likes that about people, when they’re so excited about their passion they’re willing to share it easily.

(She has sat through too many a conversation about football to know how boring people can be, even with something they love. This right there is the exact opposite.)

“Do you see the six stars there, diamond-shaped like a kite?” Even as he points them out, it takes Emma a few minutes to find said stars, replying in a hum when she does. He goes on with a laugh stuck at the back of his throat. “That’s Cygnus. The constellation of the swan.”

She smiles – she’s been doing that a lot tonight, and she refuses to dwell on it for even a second.

“And what’s Cygnus’ story?”

“I’m glad you asked!”

He goes on with the story of Phaeton, who couldn’t control the reins of Helios’ sun chariot so Zeus had to destroy it with a thunderstorm, which resulted in both chariot and man falling in the river. Cygnus, in his grief, dived into the river day after day to pick up the bones – the gods were so touched they turned him into a swan and placed him among the stars.

“Well, that sucks.”

He laughs, the sound low and hoarse. “It really does.”

Silence falls between them once Killian is done with his tale. One she’s all too eager to break – it’s too comfortable to her liking, the simple fact of enjoying each other’s company without words to fill the space between them. She doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t even want to _learn_. What would be the point anyway?

Not to mention there’s been a question at the back of her mind all evening long, one that tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop the words.

“Did you choose that spot so we wouldn’t meet anyone on purpose?”

There’s a sigh that sounds like an “Aye” and, even in the darkness, she sees him scratching his neck nervously. “I didn’t think you’d want to be seen in public with me.”

Something shifts between them just then, almost palpable in the few inches separating their bodies. Her breath catches in her throat, heavy and bitter, and no amount of swallowing changes that. She barely dares looking at him, afraid of what she might read on his features, of what she might read about herself.

“You think I’m such a bitch…”

Emma doesn’t want to care – hell, _she isn’t supposed to care_ – but it stings all the same. She’s relied on people’s opinions of her for way too long, needing their approval, needing to feel loved, that she’s almost forgotten what it feels like not to be – the feelings buried deep down the moment she understood Marco wouldn’t send her back in the system, all coming back to slap her in the face.

It’s painful.

But she kind of deserves it, she guesses.

“Your and Lucas’ hobbies are dubious to say the least but, no, you’re not a bitch.” Nice, but hardly believable. “I just understand why you wouldn’t like to be seen with someone like me.”

What a pair they make.

That thought alone is a whole other can of worms she doesn’t want to open. Not if she’s planning to survive those four months (and then some) unscathed, not if she only wants Killian Jones to be some kind of fucked-up rebound for the even more fucked-up summer she had. She can’t afford this to be more than a distraction.

She can’t afford to dwell on the fact that she’s already establishing this – whatever _this_ is – as more that just an agreement to spend time together just to upset Ruby a little.

“It’s getting late…”

It’s all she needs to say for him to nod and sit up, offering her his hand to do the same and then to jump off the trunk. The ride back home is spent in silence, Emma’s forehead pressed against the cold window while the radio plays some soft country song. He pulls over in front of her house and, for a few seconds, none of them move – until she turns around to look at him.

“That was nice. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to –”

“It _was_. Walsh invited me to Granny’s for our first date. Stargazing is better.”

The street lamp around the corner doesn’t provide much light, but is enough to notice the blush creeping on Killian’s cheeks. When he finally looks at her, it’s with a smile she can only mirror.

“I’ll see you on Monday?” he asks, tentatively, voice soft and shy.

She nods.

(He waits until she’s inside to turn on the ignition, which is always sweet.)

 

…

 

August is still in the living room, working on his thesis – it’s not even midnight, after all – when she closes the front door behind her and kicks off her shoes. But only one lamp is on, Marco already asleep, so she tiptoes her way to the kitchen, silent as a mouse, and pours herself a glass of milk.

She isn’t surprised that August follows her.

“No lecture tonight, _please_.”

He folds his arms and leans against the fridge with a smug little grin. “Wasn’t going to.”

Emma quirks an eyebrow at him from above the rim of her glass, but doesn’t glorify him with a comeback. She’s known him long enough to expect the lecture anyway – he loves his role as a protective big brother too much not to.

“Interesting choice of date.”

“Didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Gave it anyway.”

She rolls her eyes as she puts the glass in the sink. The last thing she wants is to have an argument in hushed tones, in the middle of the night, about her romantic life. Been here, done that, no desire to do it again.

“ _Goodnight_ , August.”

“If he hurts you, I’ll kick his ass,” he replies in a laugh.

She rolls her eyes. _Again_. “Yeah, right.”


	4. Chapter 4

Emma finds him in the library (where else would he be at lunch break?) and sits next to him like she belongs, like she’s done that all her life – putting her phone on the table and her bag on the chair next to her. He watches her, amused, as she opens the bag to grab a lunch box and a bottle of water (with cucumbers and limes in it and, god, could she be any more of a girly girl). She does all that without even a glance at him, then again like she’s done that all her life, and he can only smirk at how comfortable she feels no matter the situation. It’s a quality he envies her, really.

“Let me guess… Sushi?”

Her eyes go wide as she looks up – what, like she expected him to just watch her eat and not open his mouth? – and Killian smiles in reply. She looks down at her lunch box, then up at him again, before leaning forwards with her chin resting in the palm of her hand.

“If I’m the princess, what does that make you? The brain?”

Killian bites his bottom lip to swallow down a big toothy grin, not to make too much of a fool of himself. He could swear her eyes fall to his mouth for a second, but maybe it is nothing but wishful thinking.

“You wound me, love.” He presses a hand to his heart, over-dramatically hurt by her words. “I’m obviously the athlete in this scenario.”

She laughs, loud and unexpected – yeah he’s definitely grinning like a fool now.

As it turns out, her lunch is some kind of pasta salad, which is always better than the PBJ sandwich he eats every school day of the week because Liam and he are the worst cooks in the world and couldn’t make one nice meal to save their life. They’re hopeless that way.

“How was your weekend?” he asks after a few minutes of comfortable silence – she’s here for his company and it includes small talk, right?

She swallows her mouthful of pasta with a nod. “I had a date, it was nice.” The way she looks at him from beneath her lashes, with a lopsided grin – she will be the death of him. “And yesterday we invited Ruby and Granny over for a barbecue, which is always nice too.”

He wants to reply with a quip about a possible budding romance between Granny Lucas and Marco Booth, asking if the rumours are to be trusted. (Rumours being Tink’s endless gossips, of course.) But he knows better than to indulge in such thoughts, if only because he and Emma are not close enough for that kind of teasing. So he settles for taking a bite of his sandwich while she washes down her pasta with a sip of water.

“What about you?” she asks, and he almost chokes on the bread in his haste to swallow and answer.

(What a bloody moron.)

“Good. Liam and I went sailing yesterday, since the weather was so clement.” His ears and the tip of his nose are still pink from too many an hour under the sun. “Date was kind of all right too, I guess.”

Even if she rolls her eyes, Killian doesn’t miss the way her lips press into a thin line as she tries to repress a smile. It’s not much, but it’s a step in the right direction. A tiny baby step, but still a step.

 

…

 

“What do you mean you never saw it?”

She huffs loudly – not as loudly as his offended half-scream, and not loud enough for the librarian to glare at them from the reception desk.

“I didn’t, okay? It’s just a movie.”

“ _It’s just_ – oh god.”

He gets all flustered and red when he’s upset, and it shouldn’t be funny but _it is_. His eyes are a little wider, and his hair is a rightfully mess from running his hand through it out of frustration. Emma would be lying if she said she isn’t ruffling his features on purpose, because the thing is so damn entertaining and she has to bite back a laugh not to opening mock him. Not that she wants to make fun of him anyway, but she has a feeling he wouldn’t like her laughing at his face.

“Transformers fight Godzilla, so what?” she adds as she pops a cherry tomato in her mouth.

Her words have the anticipated effect of course, for he stares at her with his mouth agape and eyes wide – she almost worry about him for a second there.

“Transfo – Emma Swan, you did _not_ just compared the genius of Guillermo del Toro to that joke of a movie.”

She can’t help it – she laughs.

The librarian does glare at them this time, and gives them a ‘shhh’ just as loud and obnoxious as Emma’s laugh, but the blonde doesn’t care as she chokes on hiccups of laughter while Killian mumbles about “bloody disowning her, that’s what he’s going to do.”

Her laughs die down, eventually, even with tears pearling at the corners of her eyes, and she takes a long sip of her water to help her calm down. Killian’s pout is that of a kid throwing a tantrum, which is almost enough for her to laugh once more, but she inhales deeply and immediately feels better.

“Tell you what, Swan. I can’t fake-date a girl who’s never watched Pacific Rim. I just can’t.”

Even as she rolls her eyes at his antics, Emma checks over her shoulder to make sure no one heard him. They’ve been doing this all week, those library lunches with just the two of them, and people started noticing on Tuesday – it is now Friday, and the sparkle of a rumour turned into a wildfire, after a week of Emma not eating at her usual table with her usual friends.

It would be such a shame, to ruin it all now.

“If I tell you I’ll watch it, will it make you happy?”

The idiot pretends to think about it, and she wants to slap his shoulder.

“It will have to do for now.”

“Then I promise I will watch the freaking movie.”

“Good.”

He grins, and she rolls her eyes.

 

…

 

“Killian!”

She catches up with him by the end of the hallway, grabbing his wrist by reflex even if he was already in the middle of turning around to face her. His eyebrow rises at the sight of her, curiosity dancing in his blue eyes, but all she can do is smile at him for a second there.

(People are staring, of course they are, and she feels self-conscious all of a sudden. She shouldn’t be, because she’s Emma fucking Swan and she does as she please – dates who she pleases – but there is still something in the way people look at her, something that brings an uncomfortable shiver down her spine.)

“I – there’s a change of plans for lunch.”

He raises his hand to scratch at the spot just below his ear as his eyes drop to the floor – something he does quite often, actually, when he is nervous, which is _always_ – and only then does she realise she’s still holding on to his wrist. She lets go abruptly.

“It’s all right, I don’t mind spending time on my own. Go with your friends.”

Her heart breaks (a little, only a little) at the resignation in his voice. He doesn’t have many friends, not that she knows of, beside Tink – but then again, Tink is friends with virtually anyone at school, so Emma isn’t sure it really counts – and accepts his loneliness like it’s the only thing he’s ever been used to. She knows the feeling, even if it hasn’t affected her in a very long time, remembers those few years before Marco, before August, with not so great families in not so great houses.

Nobody should ever be this lonely.

(What is she doing? Why is she doing this to him? There must be something wrong with her for toying with Killian that way, for using him when he’s already at the lowest on the school chain food. A hundred bucks for ruining a guy’s life is all but a fair trade.)

“No, that’s not – I mean, yes. I want to eat with my friends. But I want you to come too.”

He looks back up at her then, and frowns. “Swan, I don’t think…”

“Come on, it’ll be fine,” she tries to convince him, but her voice sounds high-pitched even to her own ears – truth is, she’s terrified of what might happen because _Ruby_. “We’re dating, remember? Couples spend time with each other’s friends.”

He nods, unconvinced, and gives her a tentative smile.

That will have to do.

 

…

 

She hadn’t planned on going all touchy feely with him – her friends knows she isn’t the biggest fan of PDA and going against that would be suspect, like she’s trying to much – but he grabs her hand as they walk toward her usual picnic table, fingers lancing with her so tightly she doesn’t have the heart to let go. Instead, Emma squeezes in what she hopes to be a reassuring way and plasters her best smile on her lips as she ignores her heart beating painfully against her chest.

It’s just lunch.

Easy as pie.

Mary Margaret spots them first and, bless her heart, welcomes them to the table with her biggest grin as she shifts to the left so they can sit next to her. “Hey guys,” she says. “We were talking about the Miner’s Day festival.”

Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten about that.

And of course Ruby chimes in, because that’s what Ruby always does. “Yeah, Mary wants to triple date. Which is a great idea, don’t you think?”

Emma fancies herself flipping her best friend the finger – it’s so damn obvious Ruby is trying to push some buttons there, a not so friendly reminder nothing about a third of that tripe date would be real.

“It’s a grand idea, actually.” She stares at Killian, surprised that he would so openly answer the question. The tip of his ears is red with a blush that doesn’t colour his cheeks (skills, the boys has _skills_ ) as he turns his head to look at her with a tilt of the head, “Isn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she finds herself replying – because, really, what else is there to say at that point? “As long as we don’t colour-coordinate our outfits, I’m fine.”

It’s enough for Ruby to throw herself into a speech that starts with ‘actually, you know what would be _really adorable_ ’ and turns into yet another fashion debate between her and Mary Margaret that Emma couldn’t care less about. But she smiles as she glances at Killian, and squeezes his hand – he smiles back, and some of the tension in his shoulders disappears…

“Hey, what are you girls talking about?”

…only to reappear seconds later. She feels his hand tensing again beneath her fingers, and with it his whole body, as David gives Mary Margaret a peck on the lips before sitting next to Ruby. He looks unfazed, same old David, so Emma glances between him and Killian with a frown as she tries to put two and two together. There is no history between the two boys that she knows of – David is sweet as honey, after all.

It doesn’t take long for David to notice the other guy, though, and so he turns toward him, all smiles and everything. “Hey, I’m David. I don’t think we’ve met.”

But Killian’s face tells a whole different story. “We did, actually. You gave me a swirly in fourth grade.”

Mary Margaret chokes on her sip of water and Ruby bites back a laugh with extreme difficulty, as David stares at Killian with an expression that can only be defined as _dumbfound_. One Emma probably matches, because she’s staring too, caught by surprise by the sudden turn of events – Killian’s ears are even redder by now, more repressed anger than embarrassment.

David coughs and adverts his eyes. “It, hm, was my brother. James. But I’m sorry.”

Now is Killian’s turn to be taken aback, cheeks growing red too – definitely embarrassment. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say, and Emma thinks now is a perfect moment to jump into the conversation – she’s beaten to the punch by Ruby, though.

“Nerd got balls. I like it.”

She raises her hand expectantly.

Even with wide eyes and red cheeks, Killian gives her the damn high five.


	5. Chapter 5

Saying Killian is a bit nervous would be an understatement.

Triple date with Emma’s best friends, both of which know this date thing is fake to begin with, and both of which Killian has never spoken to before last week. That’s the understatement of the millennium, really, at that point, and he’d have half a mind to call Emma and pretend to be sick if he didn’t know she’d see right through his lie.

But Miner’s Day festival, what could possibly go wrong?

Nothing, and he focuses on that thought as he gets ready and grabs the car keys (Liam’s “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” not helping in the slightest), before driving to the park where the festivities take place. It’s still early in the evening, making it easy for him to park the Jolly and then to find Emma in the crowd – her golden mane impossible not to notice anyway.

She has her back to him and so he makes himself as silent as possible as he comes near her, only to startle her when he grabs her hand. She throws him a glare that could be the textbook definition of _if looks could kill_ , only for her eyes to soften when she understands he is no one but good old him.

She doesn’t let go of his hand, and Killian counts that as a small victory.

“Hi,” she says with a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Fancy seeing you there, love.”

It’s been yet another week of secret library meetings and awkward lunch breaks with her friends, but he’s getting used to it somehow – she makes it easy, with her laughs and smiles and the way she always grabs his wrist when he’s overwhelmed by the situation. Sometimes he even forgets that thing between them isn’t real, but the thought is a can of worms he doesn’t want to open, so he forces himself to remember it is nothing but an agreement between them, and that she’s his girlfriend in title only.

But it’s hard to remember when Emma smiles at him that way, when her fingers fit so perfectly between his.

She looks back at the phone she’s holding and types a text with her thumb only, other hand still in his, before she slips the device in the back pocket of her shorts. “They’ll be there soon,” she tells him, very matter-of-factly, before tugging on his hand and dragging him along. Because, apparently, you don’t need your friends for the fun to begin. Good to know.

It takes Emma a grand total of three minutes to coax him into buying a candy apple – Killian has learnt quickly enough that she has a sweet tooth and could kill for chocolate, among other things – and she bites down on it as she pulls him from one booth to another. Hand still in his, may he add, dragging him along without even checking if he’s following, until she points to this or that thing with a funny comment or gleeful laugh. It’s so familiar, comfortable even, that Killian soon forgets the stares of people around them – students and adults alike – when they spot the odd couple. _She_ makes it familiar and comfortable, somehow, and he happily follows her lead.

(She probably doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, or is a far better actress than Killian thought. Because they hadn’t touched yet, not once, and it’s all too easy to truly be natural. He fails to ignore the shock of electricity coursing through his arm every time she tugs on his fingers, and has to remember that she isn’t affected by him the way he is by her.)

(It’s all an act. He just wished it felt like one.)

Her friends arrive soon enough, and only then does she let go of his hand, letting him share tight smiles with Victor and David – the former he knows from his biology class, the later he’s still wary of – while she exchanges excited whispers with the girls. Killian doesn’t miss the way Ruby keeps glaring his way, even if he can’t quite decipher the look in her eyes – surprise? wariness? good old hate? – especially with Emma’s hand finding his again when they decide to check on the candles booth.

Killian just raises an eyebrow at the brunette, as if daring her to comment, even if he’s certain there is no way he could keep up with her sass. But, instead, she squints her eyes at him – it makes him more uncomfortable than any cutting word ever could.

That’s enough for Killian to feel awkward all over again, out of place among that group of popular kids – he isn’t supposed to be with them, he’s not the kind who gets invited to their table for lunch, it’s all so wrong – but he knows better than to show.

He hopes it doesn’t show.

He doesn’t know any more.

“Hey, you okay?”

Emma looks up at him with what could as well be worry in her eyes, head tilted to the side as she tugs on his hand once more to catch his attention. He only manages to croak a, “I’m fine” that’s everything but convincing.

And indeed she frowns at his lie, but doesn’t comment, instead squeezes his hand the way she always does when he feels like losing it. It calms his nerves, if only a little, even more so when she says, “Come, let’s buy the candles for later.”

She buys two, one for her and one for him (“it’s only fair since you bought me the apple”), and tells him they used to sell them, going door to door in all of Storybrooke, until last year Mr Nolan decided to blow the competition by buying all of Mary Margaret’s stock. To which Killian can only laugh and ask if everything is a competition to her, and Emma replies by wrinkling her nose at him – she doesn’t even need to answer, competitiveness written all over her soft yet stubborn features.

(He tries not to overanalyse it. Fails.)

(An orphan is an orphan and he knows something about wanting to show the world you’re more than your missing parents, better than that title following you like a second shadow, a weight on your shoulders.)

(Sometimes it scares him, how different yet so alike they are.)

And so he falls in steps behind her with that weird feeling of belonging with her but not with her friends – he lets them talk to each other and does when he does best, makes himself quiet and tiny as a mouse until people forget he’s here altogether. It’s an art he has mastered through the years, that of disappearing, and so he isn’t surprised when it indeed works, when he isn’t thrown a glance over the shoulder for all of five minutes.

But then again, who’s surprised, really?

He’s half-wondering if taking his leave now would be a good idea – nobody to notice he’s gone, after all – when Emma slows down in front of him as she whispers something to Mary Margaret’s ear. The petite brunette frowns, only for the blonde to point at something. Killian’s eyes follow her finger, because he’s a curious moron that way, to the nearby booth where a game of darts is set up. If the wall of colourful balloons catches the eyes, it’s one of the prizes that caught hers.

Namely, a plush duckling, yellow and fluffy.

Killian smiles despite himself because the thing is adorable, before acting on impulse, not second-guessing his actions – he grabs Emma by the elbow and pulls her towards the booth, ignoring her soft protests until he goes for giving the person holding the booth a fiver. She grabs him by the wrist then, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“No,” she says with a sense of finality in her tone and a frown on her face, as if daring him to go on with what he was about to do.

Too bad he can be as stubborn as she is sometimes. So he grabs her hand with his free one, prying her fingers off his wrist one by one until she’s left only glaring at him. “Don’t you want the duck?” he asks, voice as innocent as possible, while giving the banknote to the old lady.

Emma folds her arms on her chest, upset pout settling on her lips and fire in her eyes, as she answers, “No, I don’t want the duck.” And it’s amazing, really, how good she is at detecting lies yet so bad at lying.

But Mary Margaret, who followed them while the others went god knows where, is giving him and a thumb up behind Emma’s back, eyes insistent as she gives him a nod of approval. So he flashes Emma a grin before grabbing a dart and throwing it at the wall of balloons.

The first one misses its target but the four next don’t, Killian’s smile growing bigger as the balloons pop one after the other until he’s left with no dart in his hand. He turns to the old lady with a finger pointed to the shelf of prizes. “The duck, if you please.”

“It’s one of the big ones. You’re gonna need to play once more to get it.”

He gives the woman a careless shrug as he fishes another bill out of the pocket of his jeans before – surprise, surprise – being stop by Emma once more. Her eyes are pleading, almost, as her fingers wrap around his forearm for the second time. “This is ridiculous. I don’t even want it.”

Yet another lie, even if she somewhat manages to make it a little more believable this time. But her eyes are wide opened, pupils blown and frantic as they take in his face. What he reads in them confuses Killian – it is more fear than anger at this point, and how is that supposed to make sense? It’s nothing but a plush toy, it’s not as if it were expensive or valuable. Just a little gift to play in the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing.

Her voice is barely more than a whisper when she adds, “And I know you don’t have a lot of money.”

Here we are.

The poor Jones orphans.

He tries not to hold it against her, if only because he knows they’re the talk of Storybrooke no matter what they do and how good Liam is a paying the bills while saving for Killian to go to community college next year. All they see are two boys abandoned by their father, only living in a decent house because they inherited it after their mother’s death. He doesn’t hold it against Emma to think the way everybody else does. It stings, from orphan to orphan, but he puts it behind him.

“I want to please you,” he replies in the same kind of hushed whisper.

Her eyes widen even more, if it’s even possible, as she immediately shakes her head. “It’s not worth it.”

It’s that sentence, more than anything else, that has Killian clench his jaw. His eyes don’t leave Emma’s as he gives the old lady her second fiver and she gives him the darts in exchange. Because he knows that look in her eyes, and knows she isn’t talking about the toy, or his almost empty bank account. She says ‘it’s not worth it’ and he hears ‘ _I’m_ not’ – he can’t let her think that way.

Not worth it his arse.

The five darts hit their target with a frightening precision, before he points to the plush duck once more and offers a tight smile to the old lady when she tiptoes to grab it. He all but shoves it in Emma’s arms, watching as she struggles for a couple of seconds not to let it fall before hugging it to her chest, only the thing’s big plastic eyes and orange beak pocking out above her folded arms.

She keeps a tight embrace on the plush toy all evening long, burring her nose in its soft fur once in a while and sometimes throwing cryptic looks Killian’s way. He never quite manages to read the emotions showcased there, something new and different. But, if Mary Margaret’s eyes travelling from her best friend to him, and the way she smiles at him every so often, are any indication, Killian passed some kind of test here.

If only he knew which one.

 

…

 

He’s getting ready for bed, moving in his too-dark room not to switch on the light and risk waking Liam up, when his phone lightens up with a new text on his desk. He grabs the device, the surprise at seeing Emma’s name on the screen pale in comparison to the one he feels when he actually opens the message.

His heart does a weird little jolt in his chest when he looks at the picture she sent him – the plush duck tucked beneath the covers of her bed, right there in the middle – as a smile grows on his lips with each passing second.

He’s busy over-analysing the smallest details – the off-white paint on her walls and the lavender hues of her bed linen, a colour he would have never associated with Emma Swan – when the phone vibrates with yet another message from her.

‘Thank you.’


	6. Chapter 6

It is Sunday and she has nothing to do.

So of course Emma finds herself doing just that – nothing at all – as she lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the house. Everything is quiet today, save from the buzzing coming from the workshop – she vaguely remembers Marco speaking of a wardrobe someone had ordered, and so August is now helping him finish it on time.

She would help, too, were it not for her two left hands when it comes to that kind of stuff.

(Not for a lack of trying, since Marco thought it would be a good idea to let off some steam on the woodwork when she was younger and still rough around the edges. Turned out she was better at chopping wood, lumberjack style.)

(What can she say? There is something soothing about using an axe.)

(Such thoughts are totally the reason why nobody wanted to keep her before Marco.)

But today is not the kind of day where she wants to work until her hands hurt and her muscles are sore – no, today she just wants to lie in bed and stops thinking. And, while the first one is easily done, the second proves itself quite the impossible task.

Probably because she’s still hugging the freaking duck to her chest.

She shouldn’t care about it – it’s just a plush toy, after all – but she actually does, burying her nose in the soft fur ever so often and closing her eyes only for memories of yesterday’s night to jump at her face. He had been so adamant about winning the duck for her and, even after a good night of sleep, she still doesn’t know what to think of it.

No one has ever done that for her.

No boy has ever cared that much.

It throws her off the loop because, even if it’s not supposed to be real, even if they’re not really dating… it kind of feel like they are, like it is. And some part of her, a small, tiny part of her, doesn’t mind all that much – not when he buys her candies and makes her laugh and wins a freaking plush duck just because she looked at it for more than two seconds.

She can’t let herself think that way. Soon it will be over and…

( _It doesn’t have to be_ , a little voice whispers to her ear.)

(Emma scoffs because when exactly dating someone turned out to be a good thing for her? This is the opposite of a good idea, she knows it all to well.)

(And Jones? _Please_.)

The mattress dips to her left, but Emma doesn’t need to turn her head to know who just invaded her personal space. Mostly because only one person feels comfortable enough to act that way around her, after too many an hour lying side by side and whispering secrets and confessions, or simply enjoying the silent company of the other. Still, turn her head she does, and is welcomed by Mary Margaret’s warm smile – one she can only mirror, of course, because that’s Mary Margaret to you, always making you smile no matter the situation.

Emma goes back to staring at the ceiling a few seconds later, though, tightening her hold on the duck as she fights against a heavy sigh.

If Mary Margaret notices, she doesn’t point it out.

And maybe they should acknowledge the elephant in the room, maybe they should talk about it once and for all, but Emma is fine with staying silent for now. Because talking about it means talking about her feelings, and she simply doesn’t want to think about it – too messy, too confusing, when it shouldn’t even be, when she isn’t supposed to care. So she stares at the ceiling and presses her lips into a thin line, waiting until the moment Mary Margaret bursts out.

(If she closes her eyes, all she sees is _him_ – blue eyes, kind smile, hand warm against her. This isn’t helping, either.)

Mary Margaret shifts next to her, enough to get in a more comfortable position, and to steal the duck from Emma in the process – she would complain about it, but complain means caring, and we can’t have that. It’s just a dumb duck anyway, she really doesn’t care. (Lie.)

The brunette examines the duck like it holds all the answers in the universe, before she says, “Yesterday was interesting,” in a voice so soft it doesn’t carry any judgement or underlying meaning – it’s just a fact, almost curious perhaps, as she waits for Emma’s opinion on the subject.

“Yeah, it was.”

“And Killian is nice.”

“He is.”

“You like him.”

Emma’s mouth opens but not sound comes out, so she settles for glaring at her best friend instead. The conversation has been so fast, yet so soft, that she had fallen headfirst into that trap. Well done, Blanchard. _Very_ well done.

“He’s… okay, I guess. Not that it matters.”

Mary Margaret hums under her breath, the kind of innocent little noise that means she isn’t fooled, but doesn’t reply. Instead, she glances at Emma with a raised eyebrow before staring back at the ceiling – it is dangerously effective, for the blonde starts squirming and fidgeting, until she gives up and snatches the duck back to hold it close to her chest. It is soothing, somehow, and obviously not helping her case.

“I don’t do _boyfriends_. You know that.”

And if she closes her eyes, it no longer is Killian’s blue eyes plaguing her thoughts, but a crooked smile and a brown mope of hair, a whispered ‘I love you, babe’ ending in a heartbreak. She doesn’t do boyfriends, rightfully so – has burnt her wings this summer and would rather not relive that dreadful experience, thank you very much.

Boyfriends are a headache and a waste of time, anyway.

She wished her friend would see it her way, instead of believing everyone needs a soul mate to feel whole.

“I don’t know what happened this summer, and it’s your right not to tell me,” Mary Margaret says. “But I know you, and I know those – walls you built around your heart. And it’s okay, really, I understand the need to protect yourself after so many heartbreaks. I really do.”

Emma’s first thought is to scoff because _no, she really doesn’t_.

But Mary Margaret is an orphan, too, lost her mother when she was only a child – she knows of heartbreaks and the world not always being kind to you, knows of crying yourself to sleep and waking up with a headache.

Mary Margaret is just better at hiding it, at pretending it doesn’t affect her.

So good at it, indeed, that Emma sometimes forget her friend’s life wasn’t always flowers and rainbows.

“But that wall of yours, it may keep out pain but… it may also keep out love.”

Emma turns her head slowly, until green meet green and Mary Margaret smiles kindly at her. Still they remain silent for a little while longer, in the kind of wordless conversation only people who’ve known each other for a very long while can have. Truth is, Emma is too deep in her own thoughts to even speak at first, too focused on her friend’s words – she can only ponder on them, only question her own behaviour and her own heart.

“I’ve got you guys. I’ve got August and Marco.” And she hates how weak, how broken her voice is – hates that she sounds like the lost little girl she’s always been. “It’s the only kind of love I need.”

Thankfully (or maybe not) Mary Margaret has never been the kind of person to push your buttons until you explode. So she only gives Emma her least impressed face, before rolling her eyes and focusing back on the ceiling.

Fascinating, that ceiling, really.

All white and boring and shit.

“He likes you, you know. I saw it yesterday. Just in case, I don’t know, you ever change your mind on the subject.”

She won’t, and it only makes matter worse – she doesn’t want to break his heart when everything is over, doesn’t want to keep toying with his feelings because she’s a cold-hearted bitch who uses people and plays them like damn puppets.

Killian deserves better than that.

Better than her, even.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replies, proud of the evenness of her voice.

Mary Margaret nods before snuggling closer, cheek pressed to Emma’s shoulder and legs entangled with hers. Despite the still frantic beating of her heart, Emma closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy this moment of peace with her best friend, lets her thoughts wander away from boys and high school and drama.

She’s about to doze off for a most needed nap when the brunette reminds her they still need to work on that English assignment – the reason she came here in the first place. Emma groans.

 

…

 

It’s late in the evening and she still isn’t done with her homework, glasses perched on her nose to ease her tired eyes as she represses a yawn – Marco has never paid much attention to her partying as long as she has good grades, so she wants to compensate for yesterday’s evening if only because she owes it to him.

She’s about to give up, Maths exercises be damn, when her phone starts vibrating, effectively startling her out of her thoughts. She snatches the device, eyebrows rising at the little ‘New message: Killian’ on her screen.

Well, that was unexpected.

_Tink wants to spend the lunch break with me tomorrow, so I’m afraid I have to cancel our little tête-à-tête._

Yes, with the accents and all. What a nerd.

She’s about to answer just that when the phone vibrates with yet another message.

_Unless you’re afraid you’ll miss me too much. Then I’ll be more than happy to ditch her._

That effectively gets a smile out of her because – urg, this caring idiot with his knight in shining armour complex and his will to always be the most perfect boyfriend to her, no matter what happens.

( _He likes you, you know_.)

(Not helping.)

_i’ll be fine. 2 busy working on that fucking math hw to even notice ur absence._

_Need help with that?_

_im good_

She _isn’t_ – she hates maths alright, it doesn’t make sense to her, never has and never will. And, really, is she even surprised when her phone starts vibrating once more and Killian’s picture appears on the screen? (It’s one Ruby took yesterday, actually, the tip of his ears red and his eyes shining as he looks away from the camera and, damn, since when are nerds allow to look that good?)

And maybe she should be annoyed at his insistence, even if she told him she didn’t need his help… but it’s maths. And it’s late. And she’s tired.

“Hello?”

“What’s your problem, Swan?”

His voice is downright sinful over the phone – because of course it is – with a teasing edge to it, and she imagines him lying in bed with an arm folded beneath his head, powerful in his knowledge of numbers and formulas. Urg, damn bookworm.

“I don’t know,” she replies in a groan as she pinches her nose. “But I do know you’re only doing this so I will be forced to miss you tomorrow.”

And if his voice was illegal, it is nothing compared to his laugh, throaty and breathless and, nope, it doesn’t do anything to her belly (or even to southern parts), not at all. “Touché, lass.”

She isn’t exactly sure how long they stay over the phone, as he explains everything about that particular chapter to her and guides her through the exercises the teacher gave them for the following day, but at some point Marco comes knocking to her door, telling her it’s time to turn off the light, and only then does she realise it is close to midnight.

Time flies by when you’re in good company.

Or something like that.

Still, as she says goodbye to Killian, she can’t help but notice she is almost done with her homework and has indeed understood what she was doing for once – something rare enough to be mentioned, may she add. She’ll only need to quickly wrap that up during the lunch break, she thinks as she brushes her teeth, and she will be all good.

A text awaits her when she comes back to her bedroom.

_Try not to miss me too much tomorrow._

Despite herself, Emma smiles.


	7. Chapter 7

She finds him in the library, but what else is new. They’ve been doing this for a month or so, and now people know, now it is _official_ because everyone saw them at the Miner’s Day festival and –

Breathe, Killian. Breathe.

He isn’t exactly certain why he still gets overwhelmed by this because it’s part of his daily life now – the smiles, the conversation, the people whispering about them in the hallways. (Fake) dating Emma Swan is part of his daily life now, and he isn’t exactly sure he’ll ever get used to it.

(But then again, who could blame him?)

She finds him in the library and puts her phone so close to his face he sees blurry for a few seconds before his eyes can adapt to the unexpected situation. He recognizes Facebook’s blue before he actually reads the words.

“You didn’t RSVP.”

He can only blink because – what?

“ _What_?”

She sighs her latent I’m-the-school-princess-and-I-don’t-like-when-things-don’t-go-my-way sigh (the one that doesn’t make an entrance that often but is still there, waiting) as she shakes the phone in front of his nose, as if it would help. “My birthday. I sent you an invite and you didn’t reply.”

_Oh_.

Maybe he should tell her Facebook is a tad useless when you only have five friends – one of which being your brother – and so he barely ever checks it, let alone expects to receive invitations to events of any kind. But it’s just sad, even for him, so he doesn’t say anything, replies with a shrug and a little smile.

(Her birthday is in a week, he knows, he’s known since their first year at school because she’s the only one with a birthday in October and he remembers the crappy cakes she would bring to school that day, smiling and happy as she blew the candles. He knows when her birthday is, but didn’t think he would ever be invited to one. Until now.)

“I’m sorry, I just… forgot,” he says lamely.

She isn’t fooled, of course she isn’t, raising an eyebrow as she sits by his side and folds her arms on the table like she means business. Which, she clearly does. “Party next Saturday, my house, eight o’clock. No gifts.”

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Emma, I don’t think this is a good idea.” And he knows she’s going to disagree, he knows she’s going to force him to attend, so he adds, “It’s your birthday, your friends. I don’t belong there.”

He knows better than to assume he’s made a point there, but he isn’t prepared for the answer she gives him.

“You’re my friend too.”

His eyes widen but so do hers, both surprised by the honesty in her voice, the easiness with which she says the words. They’ve grown closer to each other through the weeks, of course – it was meant to happen, after all – but for her to acknowledge it, for her to put a label on this relationship of their… It warms his heart, somehow, to know he is _something_ to her, to know he matters.

She shakes her head, as if aware this emotional moment isn’t what they need right now, and when she looks back to him, the softness in her eyes is gone, the stubbornness back in full swing. “Plus I’m the birthday girl so you can’t say no to me.”

He knows better than to contradict her, so he nods.

“And, remember,” she adds as she points a finger at him. “No gifts.”

(Yeah, he’ll see about that.)

 

 

…

 

The party is, of course, a nightmare.

It takes Killian a grand total of five minutes to find a relatively quiet place in a corner of the living room, settling on an armchair with Emma’s cat. And so that’s how he spends the evening, petting Figaro and watching other teenagers (apparently) having the time of their life with alcohol and loud music, wondering when exactly he can leave without Emma being mad at him for not spending enough time in her house.

He doesn’t even know where she is, just a flash of blonde hair once in a while or the echo of her laugh from another room.

This is hell, seriously.

He should have never come in the first place.

(He knows at least Mary Margaret would speak with him if he came to her, because Mary Margaret doesn’t have a mean bone in her body, but she’s spent the evening dancing with her boyfriend and Killian knows better than to interrupt them. All the other ones either make him uncomfortable or hate him, which doesn’t help in the slightest.)

He isn’t certain how much time has passed – an hour, most likely – when he finally stands up and moves around the room to find something to drink and eat. He stumbles upon her instead.

“Killian!” she says with the largest of grins and a bit of a laugh as she grabs his arm. Her eyes are wide, her hair a mess, and she probably holds on to him not to sway – on the right side of buzzed, obviously. He offers her a tight smile back, because he’s a hopeless moron that way.

“Having fun?”

She nods, a little too energetically perhaps, her hold on his arm tightening in response. Gosh, more than a little buzzed, then.

“Come,” Emma says, as her hand moves from his forearm to grab his fingers. “Let’s dance.”

“I don’t think it’s –”

“I don’t care.”

She pulls him to the improvised dance floor and wraps her arms around his neck without a second thought, stepping closer until her chest brushes his and he has to take a deep breath. Not that she notices, already swaying to the music – a slow dance, of course, and thankfully for his poor dancing skills. So he puts his hands around her waist and tries not to be overwhelmed by the moment. Fails miserably.

“Thank you,” she says, so low he barely hears her over the music. “I know you’re miserable tonight, but thanks for trying.”

When he smiles, it doesn’t feel quite as forced as before. “Anything for you, love.”

She averts her eyes, and the red of her cheeks may have little to do with the alcohol. At least he thinks so. Who knows. It may only be wishful thinking, he’s been doing a lot of that lately.

But then she moves even closer and presses her forehead against his shoulder, and he forgets to think altogether. Just moves to the sound of music as his thumb draws small circle on her lower back, just breathes her in and closes his eyes.

The song ends way too fast, of course, as everything seems to do when you truly enjoy them, and she steps back, looks up to him through her lashes. The smile she offers him then is small, shy almost - her entire face softens in something akin to tenderness, and his breath catches in his throat.

But then she takes his hand again and states, “Tonight we’re getting you drunk, Jones”, and the moment is gone. He laughs, a breathless and broken sound, as he follows her to the drink table, lets her put a red cup in his hand.

Anything for her, indeed.

 

…

 

Killian isn’t exactly sure how he finds himself on the couch with Emma on his lap, but it’s something that happens at some point, and he knows better than to question it – knows better than to question drunk Emma’s behaviour because she’s obviously way more open in her affections than normal Emma could ever be. So he lets her sit on his lap and counts to twenty in German every time she wriggles a little too much as she laughs at one of Ruby’s jokes.

Mary Margaret sits next to them, her eyes wandering from him to her friend every so often, a secretive smile tugging the corners of her mouth, like she knows more than she lets it show. But at least she’s nice enough to talk with him, and they settle in a quiet conversation about classes and homework all the while ignoring the excited shouts of everyone around them.

(Mary Margaret, he likes. He still has reservations about Emma’s other friends, too loud, too obnoxious, but at least he’s glad for Mary Margaret.)

They’re in the middle of a conversation about universities and the future when Emma stands up, and his lap feels very empty all of a sudden without the weight of her. He looks up to her, questions in his eyes, and she replies “I’ll get more food,” with a little shrug.

“Need help?”

She hesitates, in that take-a-step-forward-stop-look-back way, before she shrugs again and makes her way to the kitchen. It’s all Killian needs to nod to Mary Margaret before he stands up too, and the brunette replies with one of her kind smiles before she looks to her other side and jumps into a new conversation. (She does that effortlessly, he’s so jealous.)

Emma is already pouring chips in a large bowl when he enters the kitchen, and so Killian kind of just stands there, not knowing what to do. He’s wriggling his fingers when she looks up, and they just stare at each other for a very long time – it feels like she’s reading his soul, and that only adds to the overall awkwardness of the situation.

“There’s guacamole in the cupboard,” she says, pointing said cupboard with her finger.

Her voice is soft, almost tired, but the music is dulled by the closed door between them and the living room. It creates some kind of bubble only for them to share, not needing to speak too loudly. Or not to speak at all, as he finds the guacamole and a smaller bowl to put it in, and they busy themselves with the food for a couple of minutes without saying a single word.

He’s painfully aware of her body close to him though, focusing on her low breathing, and he can only freeze when she stretches her arm over his shoulder to reach another cupboard. She freezes too, and they stare at each other for a very long time (again) like they can’t help themselves, like they need to get lost in the other’s eyes.

Her hand falls from the cupboard’s handle to his arm, and he can only watch as she leans forwards, as she presses her lips to his cheek.

Her eyes are blown wide, not as glassy as they were earlier. And perhaps that’s it – the fact that she isn’t as drunk as she pretended to be – that set him into motion. Or perhaps it’s just the sheer force of _her_ , perhaps he’s just tired of holding back. He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he’s kissing her – or maybe she’s kissing him, he isn’t exactly certain who pounced on whose lips first – and it’s glorious, it’s everything he’s ever imagined and so much more. He kisses her and he tastes the salt of chips on her mouth, kisses her and sees stars.

His arms are around her waist and he pulls her to him until there is no space left between them, her arms wraps around his neck as she deepens the kiss, as they stumbles awkwardly through the kitchen until he presses her against the fridge. And it may be a little too much, as far as first kiss go, but fuck if he cares at that point, not when she’s so obviously moaning in the back of her throat and –

And then she pushes him, hard enough for him to stumble back.

“Get out.”

“… what?”

Her eyes are hard, so very hard all of a sudden – it clashes with the flush high on her cheeks and her swollen lips, and it’s wrong wrong _wrong_. She looks at him the way she’s never looked at him before, cold, harsh, and Killian can only step back.

“I said get out.” He doesn’t move, and she pushes him, hands flat on his chest. “ _Leave_!”

He knows better than to question her.


	8. Chapter 8

She isn’t sure how long she stays there, sitting with her back to the fridge and hugging her knees to her chest. What she is certain of, though, is that she’s not crying – her eyes are dry and her mind numb, as she bites on her bottom lip and stares at the wall in front of her.

Should she be crying?

Hell, she doesn’t even know.

She doesn’t even raise her head when she hears the door opening, but she doesn’t need to – the muffled curse is enough for her to know who entered the room.

The door opens and closes again, and the music is turned off seconds later, August ushering everyone outside in a couple of minutes. No doubt her best friends will have a hundred questions, and no doubt they will worry, but for now Emma is simply grateful for her foster brother. Even more so when strong arms sneak beneath her knees and around her shoulders.

Years ago, she would have resented that – the obvious display of weakness, relying on someone who isn’t her. But this is August, and she isn’t that child anymore, so she snakes her arms around his neck and lets him hold her to her bedroom.

He sets her down on her bed and kneels in front of her.

“Do I need to kick his ass?”

She can’t help it – she snorts. It comes out a little too hysterical to her liking, but oh well. And she shakes her head too, for good measure, because she knows August wouldn’t need much prompting to defend her honour and punch someone in the face.

(She pretends not to notice that he knows exactly what – or, rather, who – the problem is.)

“Okay, duckling,” he goes on. “I’ll be working in my room for a few more hours, call me if you need anything.”

 

…

 

(She wakes up to her birthday gifts on her desk and a few panicky texts and voicemails from Mary Margaret and Ruby.)

(Nothing from him.)

(It doesn’t bother her, or so she tells herself.)

 

…

 

Neither of her best friends comment on the birthday disaster when they see her at school that Monday morning, and Emma is grateful for that – she still hasn’t proceeded what happened yet, mostly because she spent her Sunday watching reruns of Project Runaway and pretending nothing happened. She knows it isn’t healthy, knows she will have to face her actions (and him) at some point but – well, she’ll take denial over anything else right now.

Mary Margaret still throws her that look though, the one that means she _knows_ , and it reminds her of the Miner’s Day festival and the conversation that had followed.

She doesn’t want to think about that, either.

Which is exactly why it comes back to slap her in the face.

Mainly because her locker and his are a few feet away from each other, and the chances of them _not_ using them at the same time were, well, close to zero. She resents her life for now being a bunch of chick flick clichés because of course she has to meet his gaze just when she closes the door of her locker, and of course she can’t look away for a couple of long seconds.

(Her heart does that weird flip, the traitor.)

Killian stares back, and she reads the worry in his eyes, reads the questions too. And maybe that does it for her, how hesitant he is, because next thing she knows she’s walking away from him and telling herself it doesn’t matter. Ruby can have her money if she wants.

She’s done.

Which is exactly why she can’t _not_ look above her shoulder one last time. He looks like a puppy that just got kicked, defeat written all over his face and suddenly her throat tightens, her eyes prickle. She enters the first bathroom she finds, leans over the sink with a heavy sigh. When she looks at her reflection in the mirror, she’s not even surprised to see the same anguish in her own eyes.

_She’s done_.

Or so she tells herself.

 

...

 

She falls head first on her bed, frustrated groan muffled by the pillow as she kicks her mattress twice for good measure. She hates herself for that – for that obvious and disgusting show of weakness, for that traitor of a heart not listening to her brain. She can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe she –

_No_.

This _isn’t_ happening, thank you very much.

She’s just confused because everything about that situation is confusing, and so her heart thought it was real feelings when in fact it was only playing pretend. She understands the confusion – it was pretty good acting, after all. But that’s it. Made up. Fake. Not real.

She groans once more, a bit more loudly, until she remembers August is probably working in the next room and she doesn’t want to risk him checking up on her – she doesn’t want to risk explaining herself, knowing fully well he’ll ask for explanations at some point. Explanations she can’t give right now.

So, with a sigh, she rolls around until her feet touch the floor again, and forces herself up. Homework. Homework will do wonders in the ‘let’s forget about everything’ department. And so she falls on the seat by her desk, grabs a textbook at random – geography, wonderful – before opening it at an even more random page and starting to read.

And it works.

For, like, five minutes.

Because soon Emma’s attention is grabbed by the gift still waiting on the shelf over her desk, the gift she purposefully didn’t open yesterday – August had brought them all to her room at some point when she was sleeping, which was as sweet as it was disturbing. Of course her friends hadn’t listened to her and had bought her gifts despite her wish. And of course he’d bought something too.

Something still wrapped. Something she’s not curious about. Not at all.

So she grabs it, not without a sigh, as she reads the tag attached to it, written in that stupidly elegant handwriting of his.

_To the loveliest of girlfriends, x Killian_

She tries not to linger on it, to focus on opening the damn thing instead.

A laugh escapes her when she discovers what’s inside.

 

…

 

He leans against the front door once it’s closed, head falling against wood in a soft ‘thumb’ as he lets out a sigh. His lips are still prickling, cheeks probably as flushed as his mind is confused. He closes his eyes and chases the remnants feelings of their shared kiss, but all he sees is the panicking look in her eyes when she’d pushed him away, the fear and heartbreak he saw there before she raises all her walls up between them, her eyes wide in their lack of emotions.

He sighs once more as he runs a hand through his hair, mumbles a ‘blood hell’ that barely starts to encompass his feelings on the matter.

“You’re back early.”

He opens his eyes to Liam standing there, arm folded on his chest and one eyebrow raised in what is both a question and a judgement – he can shove them both up his arse, because Killian is so not in the mood.

“That bad, huh?” he adds, just to rub it in.

“Sod off.”

Both eyebrows fly up Liam’s forehead – it is so not Killian’s style to curse, after all, especially when dealing with his brother. But hell if he cares as he drags himself up the stairs and falls on his bed with a groan. Her smell is everywhere, flowers and cinnamon and alcohol, and that alone is the sweetest of nightmares.

 

…

 

The nightmare continues for the next couple of days, and he can barely stomach the way Mary Margaret looks at him when she meets him in the corridor between classes, that perfect mix of pity and sorrow. He wonders what she knows, what she was told – he knows his Swan alright, and maybe she didn’t say anything at all, maybe Mary Margaret only guessed.

And of course he sees her, because fate is cruel that way.

(He’s stared at his phone all Sunday long, as if it would help, as if it would make it ring with a call or a text – desperate for anything from her, really.)

(He went to bed that Sunday evening knowing he’d been fake-dumped. Or something.)

He sees her and he has no idea what to do, so he just stares at her like the moron he is, and forgets to breaths when she looks back. Nothing happens, he wasn’t clueless enough to believer otherwise, and she flees the scene in a matter of seconds, that same frightened look in her eyes.

She still glances at him above his shoulder, and he hates his traitor of a heart for beating a little faster.

 

…

 

He’s neck-deep in his history paper, mind full with Cold War and Berlin’s Wall and Soviet Union, when his phone starts ringing. He’ll deny the high-pitched yelp that escapes his lips as he almost falls down his chair.

Because – bloody hell – because it’s _her_ ringtone.

(She was playing with his phone a couple of weeks ago, because hers was apparently dead, and it had involved her downloading a ton of useless apps and even more useless games as well as changing her own ringtone in his contact list. He still has no idea why she chose the main theme from Pirates of the Caribbean, but she found it hilarious and he knew better than to question it.)

He almost drops the phone as he throws himself at it, and has to stares at the screen for long seconds before he’s able to pick it up because – well, because his brain probably stopped working for a second there, what with her name written on the screen and all.

He’s pathetic that way.

“Hello?” At least his voice sounds composed, that’s a first.

“Tell me the dog doesn’t die.”

And –

_What_?

“What?”

“The bulldog. Tell me he doesn’t get eaten by one of the Godzillas.”

He chuckles – the conversation is rightfully unreal at this point, and all he can do is chuckle as he pinches his nose and shakes his head. Is he even surprised, at this point, that she’s acting like nothing happened, like she didn’t ignore him for two entire days?

Not really, no.

“The dog doesn’t die.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

She doesn’t add anything else, and he can hear the muffled sounds of the movie in the background as she watches it. It shouldn’t do things to him but it _does_ because – because she promised to watch it, forever ago, and she opened his gift even if she was clearly upset and – it does things to him, okay.

“Hey, wanna watch it together?” she asks after what feels like a lifetime of silence. It takes them a few minutes to synch the movies, but then he’s lying in bed with his laptop on his stomach and his phone against his ear, listening to her comments as the story unfolds. It’s mostly gasps and little ‘ah’, with a throwaway ‘man, Idris Elba’ in the middle – it makes him smile, how responsive to the movie she is.

(“I want to be Mako when I grow up.”

“Don’t we all.”

He isn’t sure, but he thinks he hears her snort in reply.)

(“That Aussie accent is a joke.”)

(“Gosh, the Sons of Anarchy finale…”

“Spoilers.”

“Sorry.”)

Silence stretches between them as the credits roll on the screen, and he feels uncertain, uncomfortable all of a sudden. And he hates that, hates that she keeps him on his toes all the time like that, that she’s toying with him even if she probably doesn’t realise it. Hates that he doesn’t know how to react to her half of the time.

“Emma…” he says, tentatively.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Oh. “Okay, but – like –”

“Yeah.”

And it speaks volumes, that he understands what she means in that ‘yeah’ alone. He closes his eyes and sighs, as silently as possible for her not to hear. “I’ll see you at lunch tomorrow, then?” He makes sure it sounds like a question, makes sure to leave her a way out if needed.

“Okay…” Pause, then, “Thank you. For the DVD.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

…

 

Emma stares at her phone after she hung up, stares at it for a really long time, still trying to process what just happened.

She’s been doing that a lot, lately.

She grabs her pillows and presses to her face and screams into it until her throat hurts.


	9. Chapter 9

November comes around the corner, almost too fast to Emma’s liking. Awkwardness lingers between her and Killian, even as they go back to lunches in the library and the occasional date – going to the movies or eating at Granny’s, for the most part. She could pretend everything is back to normal, or whatever qualifies as normal for them, but she can’t ignore the way his eyes fall on her lips more often than not, can’t ignore the fast beating of her own heart whenever his arm brushes hers. It is ridiculous, she knows, but it makes things strange between them, the taste of words unspoken always on her tongue when she looks at him.

Which makes it all the more awkward when she stands in front of him that one Monday morning, acting like she hasn’t been nibbling on her bottom lip and nervously playing with her fingers for the past ten minutes or so.

“So…” she starts, drawls on the word for longer than is necessary. “What are you doing this Thursday?”

He looks away, tongue darting out to wet his upper lip, and she hates herself a little for knowing it is his thinking face. He frowns. “This Thursday is Thanksgiving.”

“And you’re invited!” Emma replies a little too cheerfully, with an arm movement that wants itself excited.

It very obviously wasn’t her idea but August had been a dick about it, reminding Marco she’s been dating that one boy for a while and _wouldn’t it be awesome if_. Marco had agreed because of course he had, saying something about meeting the boyfriend and how he could also invite his brother, and – yeah, a rightful mess, according to Emma.

So here she stands.

Inviting Killian.

“I mean, we mostly just eat Granny’s pumpkin pie in front of the parade but… You and your brother can come too, if you want.”

Is it awkward? It feels awkward as hell to Emma, even more so with Killian’s wide eyes as he stares at her, like he doesn’t understand a single word she’s saying. He shakes his head then, and runs a hand through his hair with a nod.

“Okay. I’ll ask Liam tonight. Keep you posted tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

_Awkward_.

 

…

 

Marco actually cooks a turkey this year. Well, he says he did, but Emma and August shares a look to let the other know they’re not fooled, they both know he asked Granny to help him. Probably because the three of them are helpless when it comes to cooking. Most likely because they have guests for once and Marco doesn’t want to look like a bad father. (Not that he ever could but, oh well.)

At least the mashed potatoes are homemade, even if the pie is from Granny’s too. Sometimes, Emma believes the old lady lives off the Booth family alone, with how many meals they buy from her. Not that Emma would ever complain, because the grilled cheese is delicious.

So here she is, doing a last minute check on the gravy while making sure her dress doesn’t get stains in the process. Because of course she has to wear a dress, _they’re having guests_ , so she picked something simple, the opposite of fancy. She doesn’t have anyone to impress, after all, or so Emma tells herself.

Which is exactly why her heart starts racing when the doorbell rings, and why her hands feel clammy all of a sudden – because she doesn’t have anyone to impress.

So she puts on her best smile as she leaves the kitchen, wipes her hands on her dress, and pretends everything is fine as she watches Marco opening the door. Everything is fine. It’s just Thanksgiving. No problem.

Killian’s eyes meet hers as she comes to stand next to Marco, and then they don’t because he’s taking her all in and she forces herself not to fidget under his gaze. The pink dress was such a bad idea, she should have gone for the blue one, or maybe even borrowed Ruby’s red one and why is she thinking about that, why does it _matter_?

“You look lovely, Swan.”

(It matters.)

 

…

 

Things go – they go well, all things considered. Probably because August and Liam went to high school together, so they share a beer and a handful of memories as they watch the match, Marco joining them at some point. Killian goes straight for the cat, Figaro purring in his lap as he scratches its ears, and makes idle conversation with her the way they usually do in the library, with no one to stare at them.

But there are people staring right now (no matter how subtle, Emma can feel the eyes of her family on her) and, even if Liam Jones knows of their little agreement, the same thing can’t be said about Marco and August. So Emma forces herself to touch Killian’s arm when she laughs, and pretends it is natural for her to let him play with her hair every so often, or to have his arm around her shoulder, or to smile at him just that way.

It’s easier at school, when people don’t know her that well, when they don’t care about the polished details.

Even more so when they actual get to the eating part – because of course Killian is sitting next to her – with the way his hand finds her leg under the table every so often, thumb drawing small circles on her bare knee. She can barely repress a shudder the first time it happens, forcing herself not to jump at the unexpected brush of skin against skin.

She’s all too relieved when lunch is over and the guys go back to the living room – she almost jumps out of her seat to grab some dishes to bring to the kitchen, the need to run go _flee_ too strong to be ignored.

Killian follows.

But then again, when does he not?

“Don’t you family do the thing about being grateful?” he asks as he puts the plates in the sink.

Emma stills with the plastic wrap in her hands, sighs. “No, we don’t.” She goes back to her task of putting the wrapping paper on the dishes before putting them in the fridge. “It gets kind of emo when you do it with orphans. Grateful about having a house, about family, about three meals a day…”

She shakes her head every so slightly before turning around to open the fridge – she can’t help but glancing his way then, to assess his reaction to such a confession, only to meet heated eyes. That’s when it dawns on her – the kitchen, the fridge. Her ears turn pink. Killian clears his throat.

“Is that,” he starts, as eager as she is not to dwell on the memory. “Is that why you’re not a Booth?”

The question takes her by surprise, and so Emma busies herself with making room for the dish of mashed potatoes in the fridge, playing Tetris with the food in there as she looks for the right answer. It feels too personal, all of a sudden, but she can’t explain the need to give him a reply anyway. “Something like that, yeah. That, and the income that comes with me. It’s not much, but it helps with the bills.”

It had been the source of many a problem when she was younger – foster parents seeing her as nothing but a meal ticket, giving her away when they realised she wasn’t worth the money. It had taken a while to accept that Marco was different, better. By then, they had both agree the money, as sparse as it was, was much needed if she wanted to go to college. She may not have his name, but she knows Marco doesn’t look at her to see dollar bills now, has become more than foster family to her. It is all that matter, shared family names be damned.

She closes the door of the fridge as she closes the conversation, then goes back to the dining room to grab some more stuff. Killian follows, and she looks at him over her shoulder, relieved to see understanding and not pity in his eyes.

“What about you?” she asks. “What are you thankful for?”

“Well, I’m Irish so – probably beer and sheep and pots of gold at the end of a rainbow.”

The laugh bubbles out of her before she can even think for swallowing it down and she bumps her hip with Killian’s as both their brothers shush them from the living room. Killian shares a grin and meaningful look with her and she rolls her eyes before going back to the kitchen, arms full.

“Seriously though?” she asks as she puts everything in the sink.

She has no idea why she’s probing that much, because she doesn’t have an answer to her own question, wouldn’t even know where to begin with all the things and people she’s grateful for in her life. It is such a loaded question, and she’s so deep in her thoughts, that she’s startled when Killian brushes his lips to her temple.

“I’m grateful for you.”

She has no idea what to reply to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're willing to drop a review, please consider telling me what you thought of that chapter instead of demanding the next one already. Nothing more depressing for a writer than a "more!" or "update soon!" without a kind word about what you just read.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: August is back on the show! Thoughts, feelings about it?  
> Second of all: ... I sorry for that chapter. I really am.

She barely hears the footsteps following her over the sound of her own heart drumming against her ribs almost painfully. Her breathing is ragged as she runs up the stairs and it has little to do with exhaustion and a lot to do with the tears blurring her vision, the sob getting caught in her throat.

“Emma, wait!”

But she doesn’t – it is a feeling she had almost forgotten, the need to run, fly, flee, the need to get away as fast and far as possible. Something she thought was behind her, now that she is living with Marco. How wrong she was, to let her guard down, to let someone in – how wrong she was to trust him, to believe he would keep his end of the bargain.

She fights against another sob, almost chokes on it, as she reaches for the door to her bedroom. He grabs her wrist before she has time to open it, and her only reflex is to jerk him away. Hurt flashes through his eyes, but Emma refuses to focus on it right now – who gave him the right, anyway?

“Don’t,” she say, and it sounds like poison in her mouth, rolls like an insult on her tongue. “Don’t do _this_.”

“Do what, Emma?”

He’s playing dumb and she hates him even more for it. Because Killian Jones may be a lot of things, but ‘dumb’ doesn’t make the list – far from it. He knows, surely he must be aware of what he’s done, what was happening when he uttered those words. He wanted a reaction from her, quite obviously, and he got one. Not the one he expected, but a reaction nonetheless.

She’s so upset she tries to push him away, both hands on his chest. “Don’t act like my boyfriend.”

“I _am_ your boyfriend!”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!”

Her yell startles her as much as it does him, and they just stare at each other for a very long time, unable to say anything, unable to even process what is happening between them.

And it is the problem, isn’t it? _Nothing_ was supposed to happen between them, those were the rules. But she let him in, let him get comfortable around her in ways he never should have – they had a plan, they were supposed to stick to it. But between library dates and fleeting touches and heated glances, it had become more than a contract, Emma herself is aware of it now.

She let it become more, and she hates herself for it, too.

“You’re not my boyfriend,” she goes on, lower this time. “We are not dating. This is fake, you know it is! You agreed to it being fake!”

“And you’re lying to yourself.”

“You’re delusional.”

“You’re in denial!”

Her fingers tingle with the urge to slap him. Emma knows it wouldn’t help – if anything else, it would only make matter worse – but she needs to do it anyway somehow, needs the release it would bring her. Needs him to hurt physically the way she’s hurting emotionally right now, needs him to feel like shit too. This isn’t fair, she knows – but she’s Emma Swan and so she, more than anyone else, knows nothing is life is ever fair.

“Everything okay?”

They both turn around to find August standing on the last steps of the stairs, his blue eyes travelling between both teenagers in front of him. Emma forces herself not to sigh in relief at the sight of him.

“Yes. Killian is leaving.”

Another pair of blue eyes lands on her then, and it is no longer hurt she sees in them – it is blatant heartbreak, exactly the reason why she is pushing him away.

“Killian is staying,” he replies in a heartbeat, and maybe it is the most surprising of all. His determination, so far from the shy, awkward nerd she’s learnt to know during the last past months. This isn’t him, not the him she’s used to, and it throws Emma off more than she’s willing to admit.

“Yes, you are. This… Whatever _this_ is, it’s over.”

Killian’s mouth opens wordlessly as he tilts his head in a way that can only mean _don’t_. “Emma, no…”

“You heard the lady,” August chimes in from behind. “Time to go.”

She’s never been more grateful for her brother’s presence – she can handle her shit alright, and they are both aware of it, but it is still nice for him to have her back no matter what.  Still nice for him to pointedly look at Killian until he sighs and makes his way down the stairs.

(She ignores the pang in her heart as she watches him go.)

“You okay?”

August’s words bring her back to earth, and Emma slightly shakes her head before she looks up to him now that he’s standing in front of her. It’s as loaded as questions go, but she finds herself nodding anyway, not in the mood for his big brother act and useless probing. He stares for a little while longer, before he opens his arms even so slightly. It is all Emma needs to accept the comforting hug he’s offering her.

The front door closes downstairs, and she snuggles a little closer to him.

 

…

 

She goes to the mall with Mary Margaret and Ruby on Black Friday – some kind of ritual now, even if it mostly is to watch Ruby fighting with other shoppers all day long. Emma doesn’t really feel in a shopping mood this year, thought, and her phone is heavy in her pocket with the weight of texts unread. All twenty-seven of them, last time she checked. This is just sad at that point – both the number of texts and her stubbornness not to read them. They go to the same school, she won’t be able to ignore him forever.

_She can try_ , some part of her brain tells her.

And trying can be more than enough.

So Emma focuses on the throng of people around them instead, letting her eyes wander in case she finds something interesting to buy. Not likely, because she never buys anything on Black Friday, but it never hurts to check. Especially when Ruby is fighting with another woman over a red dress she doesn’t need. It could take hours, so Emma gets curious in the scarves on another shelf to pass time.

“Do we tell her she already owns the exact same dress?”

Emma looks over her shoulder at Mary Margaret’s words. Indeed, the dress is very familiar, even if she couldn’t tell if Ruby owns it already – her closet looks like a mall of its own, after all. She shrugs. “Let her, it keeps her busy.”

No amount of staring at the scarf in front of her allows Emma to ignore Mary Margaret’s frown. Ah. “Are you okay? You seem a little… down.”

“I’m fine,” is her immediate reply – she had time to practice, what with August asking her the exact same question a hundred times last night.

“How was Thanksgiving with Killian?”

She doesn’t beat around the bush. Neither does Emma. “We broke up.”

“Wait, _what_?” comes from behind them, and both girls turn around to watch Ruby letting go of the red dress. She glares at the other woman, points a threatening finger at her face, “You’re lucky it’s an emergency.”

She elbows her way to her friends until she’s standing between them, and Emma heaves a sigh when she catches a glance of her face, stern and angry. No doubt Ruby thinks the breakup comes from Killian, which is laughable really – especially knowing how everything went down, especially when the words he uttered in the kitchen still come back to haunt her every five minutes or so.

“Why are you guys so concerned anyway?”

“We didn’t know you we actually dating.”

“We – I – _no_!”

It is as painful as reminders get. That neither of her friends know of the pact she made with Killian, neither of them know he was in on it from the very beginning – which makes things worse, come to think about it and… Wait, they really thought they were a couple? Why? _How_?

“Emma…” Mary Margaret starts, in that voice that makes it clear she’s the mom-friend of the group. “What happened? I thought you liked him?”

“Wait, you _like_ him?” Ruby chimes in before Emma has the time to even think of what she could reply to Mary Margaret’s question. She turns to the petite brune, literally ignoring Emma. “Since when?”

It’s like Emma isn’t even there, the way her friends talk about her in front of her – Mary Margaret explaining everything since the Miner’s Day Festival and Ruby commenting everything with ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ and ‘hmm’ when it is needed. So Emma busies herself with playing with the end of the scarf in front of her, if only to keep herself busy while Mary Margaret gives a detailed account of everything that happened during the past two months.

“He kissed me during my birthday party,” she adds at some point.

Both her best friends stare at her with their mouth agape, until Ruby’s turns into a wolfish grin. “You _so_ like him. We wouldn’t be wasting our Black Friday speaking of boys if you didn’t.”

 

…

 

She looks over her shoulder one last time, at Mary Margaret and Ruby still in the car. They wave at her when they see her looking, and so Emma braces herself when she turns around to face the door once more and raises her hand to knock. There are long seconds of silence before she hears the shuffling sound of footsteps, then the metallic click of a door being unlocked.

The wrong Jones face her then, and she takes a step back out of instinct.

“Erg – hi. Is Killian here?”

Liam looks her up and down, one hand on the doorframe while the other is still around the handle – it effectively acts as a shield between her and the inside of the house, which means that things will obviously not go her way. _Obviously_.

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

His voice is clipped, leaving no place for argument. Still, Emma rises on her tiptoes to look above his shoulder. She only gets to see the stairs in the corner, a coat draped over the railing, before Liam closes the door a little more. She glares at him.

“I mean it, Emma. He doesn’t want to see you, so leave now.”

“Please, just five minutes?”

She knows it is a lost cause even before Liam shakes his head, and feels herself deflating at that second-hand rejection. So she offers Killian’s brother a weak smile, one that would never reach her eyes even if she tried, before she takes a step back.

“Tell him I came by, okay? And that we’ll have lunch on Monday.”

As she makes her way back to the car, avoiding the curious stares of her friends, she knows her message won’t bet delivered – and even if it is, it will most likely be ignored anyway. So she opens the door to the car and sits inside without a word. Her friends both stare at her before sharing a glance, and Ruby doesn’t need further prompting to announce they’re having ice cream and waffles at Granny’s.

Emma inhales as much as she can, even if the chocolate isn’t as soothing as it’s supposed to be. But drowning her sorrows in sugary food is as good a solution as any when you feel as shitty as she does – which is a lot, right now. Neither Ruby nor Mary Margaret bring the topic back on the table, discussing their plans for Christmas break instead, and for that Emma is grateful.

There isn’t much left to say, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're willing to drop a review, please consider telling me what you thought of that chapter instead of demanding the next one already. Nothing more depressing for a writer than a "more!" or "update soon!" without a kind word about what you just read.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow two updates in less that a week, what is happening? (Don't get used to it!)

She finds the address on Google, the little shop out of town – she refuses to go to the mall for that, not because she could run into someone she knows but… Being out of town is easier, somehow. Simpler. So she borrows Marco’s car and drives all the way there, parks two streets away from her destination.

It’s a comic book shop standing above a fast food restaurant but, when she takes the stairs, she’s surprised that it smells like old paper and dust, and not like grease and fries. It gives her a library vibe, which is comforting. More comforting that the posters covering every inch of wall in the stairs, movies and animes and books – Chris Pratt even smirking at her in all his space scavenger glory.

Emma takes a deep breath before she opens the door and, finally, enters the comic book shop. She isn’t surprised at how clean and tidy the place is, because she knows better than to believe the movies on that particular subject. Still, there are shelves on every wall, all the way up to the ceiling, and at least half a dozen different sections, all colour-coded by genre. And maybe a grand total of three people.

Emma stands frozen there for a moment, before she forces herself to move forwards and do something. So of course she walks toward something familiar, and of course something familiar turns out to be Thor because – duh. She grabs the comic book and flips through it as if to give herself some kind of composure, even if it must be obvious to anyone looking her way that she has no idea what she’s doing.

Also, Thor happens to be a woman in this one. Huh.

“Do you need help?”

The voice startles her enough for it to be embarrassing, and Emma swallows down a yelp of surprise as her heart start drumming against her ribcage. She looks up to the Asian girl who appeared seemingly out of nowhere, leaning against a bookcase with her arms folded on her chest. She wears a shirt with the shop’s logo on it, even if she barely looks older than Emma, and her nametag reads Mulan. Emma isn’t sure if it’s a nickname or her real name.

“Yeah, I – erh.”

“First time, huh?” The girl doesn’t smile, but her mouth twitches a little – close enough, probably. “My girlfriend had the same deer-in-the-highlights look the first time she came here.”

Emma goes for a smile, if only because it’s the polite thing to do – and because Mulan is right of course, but that’s an entire different discussion altogether. The smile falls flat, not that it really matters when the girl looks down at the comic book she’s still holding.

“Yeah, good choice. You’d better start with the first one, though, if you want to really understand the plot.”

She picks another comic book, one with the same blonde warrior on the cover, and hands it to Emma, who takes it without a word. She stares at it for a very long time, blinking way too much for her liking, before she looks back up at the girl in front of her.

“Actually, I’m not here for me… It’s for my, erh, boyfriend.” The word sounds weird and heavy in her mouth, but she refuses to dwell on it for the moment. “We got into a fight and –”

“You need more than a comic book for that, then. What does he like?”

Walking and talking, as Emma puts the comics books back in their place before she follows Mulan to another corner of the shop, less DC-Marvel, the books thicker and obviously more expensive all of a sudden. She recognizes a few titles, if only because they were made into successful movies and shows, but most of the books she sees are unknown to her. Not that Emma expected it to go any other way, but still. It is always a little disconcerting, to be that much out of her depth.

“Pacific Rim and, like… He likes sailing a lot.”

Isn’t that sad? Being unable to give a proper list of Killian’s tastes, even if she spent the better part of the school year so far by his side. She can’t even decide if it’s because they never had that kind of deep, meaningful conversation, or if she simply didn’t focus on it in her refusal to care about him more than necessary. It is depressing in both cases, anyway.

Mulan taps a finger to her lips for a second, looking up at the shelves around her, before she makes up her mind with another twitch of her lips. She rises on her tiptoes to grab a book on one of the higher shelves, its cover black and red and gold, before she hands it to Emma. The character on it is familiar – the hat and silver hook will do that to you – but also isn’t because he looks nothing like Dustin Hoffman, leaning more on the tall dark and handsome side of the spectrum.

Still. Captain Hook. Huh.

“It’s a series of graphic novels that takes fairytales and puts them in a steampunk universe. So magic, robots, nice aesthetics, the whole shebang. If your guy likes sailing, he’ll be into that one.” Mulan says it all with an even, matter-of-fact voice, but Emma hears traces of what could as well be excitement in her tone. Means the stuff is good, most likely. “Each volume is a new fairytale. I also recommend the Maid Marian one. My girlfriend loves the Sleeping Beauty one, too.”

Emma looks up to the different volumes on the shelf, wondering which one she should pick. Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, Cinderella, The Prince and the Pauper… Too many possibilities, and she almost wants to do like little kids in bookstores, sit cross-legged on the floor and read them all until she makes up her mind. She isn’t exactly certain Mulan would like that idea, though.

And then… “Oh. The Swan Princess one!” Mulan arches an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced, so Emma finds herself adding, “My name is Swan,” as if it would explain everything. Well, perhaps not everything but…

“Okay,” Mulan says as she grabs the second book. “Need anything else?”

Emma bits her lip for a second, and looks around her. If good graphic novels might do, quirky little toys is most likely taking it too far. So she shakes her head, before she stops in her tracks, and looks back to Mulan. “About that girl Thor thing…”

The girl finally cracks a smile.

 

…

 

One week.

It’s been one week.

And it’s terrible, really, how much he misses her – how many times his mind has replayed even the tiniest scene between them, looking, searching, for a clue that should have been there, a clue he probably missed. A clue showing him she wasn’t interested, not the way he wanted her to be.

But he doesn’t find anything, only slams into her walls and wonders about the mystery that is Emma Swan.

Perhaps he should have done differently, better. Perhaps he should have asked her out, properly, officially – made things clear between them, made his intentions clear towards her. But she’s her and he’s him, and sometimes he can’t even talk to her without stuttering a little, so he can’t imagine what asking her that kind of question would be like.

He definitely would make a fool of himself.

Not that it matters anymore.

So he stares at the ceiling as he lies in bed, and sighs heavily every so often, as if it would help somehow. It doesn’t, it only reminds him he’s bored out of his mind and has absolutely nothing to do – mostly because he spent the previous weekend doing his homework not to think about anything else, and so finds himself out of school work. He even bothered rewriting his history notes, if only to pass time a little.

That’s how pathetic the situation is.

And it’s not like he doesn’t want to do something, but he suddenly realises how empty and insignificant his social life is without Emma. It didn’t use to bother him before – Tink was more than enough to him. But Tink has other friends, friends Killian doesn’t like, and so he doesn’t feel like hanging out with her when she’s hanging out with them. Hence the hermit syndrome, really, because it’s a Saturday and he would usually spend them with Emma, either at Granny’s or at the movies or – yeah.

He’s not even hurting anymore. He was, that first day, when everything dawned on him, when he realised what was happening. It hurt so much he didn’t know what to do at first, so not used to being rejected, so not used to the coldness in Emma’s eyes, in her voice.

But – but it’s Emma, and so he understands. Well, not really _understand_ but he sees where she is coming from. Take one to know one, after all, and Killian remembers when his father left them, how he had refused to go out for months, how he had clung to Liam like a drowning man at a straw.

He spooked her, more than anything else.

Because Killian refuses to believe she pushed him away out of unrequited feelings. Not this time, not during her birthday party. And maybe he’s delusional, maybe he just sees things where he wants them to be but – she wasn’t acting. Not always. There was a part of reality in their so-called couple, it wasn’t all just an act. And he refuses to believe otherwise.

He sighs and rubs his hands to his face.

He needs fresh air.

 

…

 

It all feels so very familiar, standing in front of the door, knocking, facing Liam Jones. Over and over again. Or only twice, but it’s twice too much already if you ask Emma. So she smiles at him, weakly, a broken record of the previous week – without a doubt, it will go just as well, and dread settles in her stomach at the thought.

“Is Killian here?”

She forces herself not to look over his shoulder this time, her eyes never leaving his to show how determined she is. She’s here for business, and she won’t leave before she gets the answers she needs, gets the meeting she requested.

Too bad Liam doesn’t see it her way.

“No, he’s out.”

Despair comes to keep the dread in her stomach company. That and something else, something new that she barely allows herself to feel at times. Jealousy. Which is stupid, really, because Killian is his own person and can do what he wants of his weekends for all she cares, because they definitely aren’t a couple and so he doesn’t need to tell her where he is, and what if he wants to go out with people, what if he has a group of friends and –

She takes a large inspiration, forces herself to calm down.

As always, it doesn’t work.

“Okay. Can you tell him I came by, then? And…” She rummages through her bag to hand him the books, carefully wrapped in colourful paper. (Well, ‘carefully’ is not the word, but Mulan did her best with the wrapping and, really, it’s all that matters.) “Can you give this to him? Please?”

There is pity in Liam’s eyes even as he takes the gift from her.

Emma doesn’t care.

 

…

 

A gift is waiting on his bed when he comes back home – nothing eventful, he just spent a couple of hours by the docks, hoping the salty air would somehow help clearing his muddy thoughts – and so he quirks an eyebrow at the sight of it. This isn’t his birthday, since he was born in the summer, nor it is a special occasion of sorts, and he hopes against hope that Liam didn’t take pity in him and bought him some stuff to make him feel better about being rejected by the girl of his dreams.

So he gingerly grabs the present and eyes it for long seconds. He doesn’t go as far as shaking it, because it is damn obvious it’s a book of sorts, but the urge is there anyway. With one last look over his shoulder, as if Liam could pop up to make fun of him at any moment now, Killian opens the present.

He isn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t this.

And, well, let’s say he elects to focus on the note that falls on the floor rather than the two graphic novels in his hand because – well, priorities.

The handwriting is familiar on the little piece of paper, but so is the logo in the corner – the comic book shop where he always goes, and it makes him smile to imagine Emma in that place that is definitely _his_ and not hers. His universe. His heart melts a little at the thought.

Even more so when he finally scans the words on paper. Only a few, straight to the point, but that’s Emma for you – no flourish, no wasted ink, just the message, no ifs and buts.

_Meet me at the docks tomorrow, 3pm_.

He definitely will.


	12. Chapter 12

There is something peaceful about the sea. Through all her years in the system, Emma liked it better when the foster homes were close to shore – no matter how awful the family, how cruel the parents, she always escaped to let the wind tangle her hair, let the salty air fill her lungs. The beach could be of sand or pebbles, and sometimes there was no beach at all, just docks; as long as she closed her eyes and listen to the songs of seagulls, she was fine. If only for a second, she was fine.

The sea welcomes her into its embrace today, as Emma’s heart beats painfully against her ribcage, a hundred thoughts crossing her mind, leaving her dizzy with confusion and fears. She isn’t used to letting her emotions overcome her, she who was so good at keeping them at bay before. But now, sitting by the end of the pier with her feet dangling in the emptiness between her and the sea, her arms folded against the lower railing, Emma let her emotions run free. She relishes in them, even – the way her heart feel like swelling and squeezing and hurting all at once, the knot in her stomach matching that of her throat, the red in her cheeks that isn’t due to the wind kissing her skin.

She knows he is here before she even sees him, and so she keeps her eyes on the sea as he comes to sit by her side. For a moment, she looks down, watches his feet dangling above the sea next to hers – his old, dirty sneakers and her boots of soft leather, side by side above the waves. It fascinated her, somehow, even if she couldn’t explain why if asked.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she says as she dares a glance his way.

His arms are folded against the railing too, cheek pressed to the soft fabric of his hoodie. He stares at her, blue eyes never leaving her face, taking her all in. She shivers, and it has little to do with the cold.

“Did you doubt I would?”

He’s been ignoring her for days, refusing to talk to her. Hell, she broke up with him, told him to go. He had every right, every reason not to come. And yet here he is. Here he always is.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did,” she replies, even if deep down she knows he’ll always come if she asks.

Silence settles between them, somewhat comfortable and somewhat awkward, as they stare at each other and then at the sea, fleeting glances from the corner of their eyes. Emma knows she needs to speak first – she summoned him, after all, the decent thing would be to at least explain why. But the words die in her throat every time she tries to speak, not matter how hard she tries.

She sighs and closes her eyes, bracing herself against things to come. There is no other way but forwards, after all, no other way but up now that they’ve hit rock bottom.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts after a while, startling him. The words are slurred in how quickly they jump out of her mouth, and she winces before trying again, “I’m sorry. For what I did, for asking you to – for – everything, basically. I’m sorry.”

It sounds messy – just like her.

“Asking me to what?” is what Killian asks, of all things.

She sighs. “Asking you to do the fake dating thing. It wasn’t fair, I shouldn’t have done that.”

She watches him then, and so she sees the way he clenches his jaw – it does _the thing_ as he clenches it too hard. He’s upset. Even with her apologies, he’s still upset.

“Is that all?” he asks.

His voice is cold, emotionless – like he wants to be done with this conversation. Done with her. His eyes are empty where they were pleading during their last argument, begging her not to push him away, imploring for her not to break up with him.

_I_ am _your boyfriend_ , he had said, with no short amount of certainty. Like there was no other way to see it, this thing between them. He’d made it real – if only during the last seconds, he’d made it more than just a game between Ruby and her, more than just pretend, more, more, _more_. And now there is nothing in his eyes, nothing but the need to leave, to get away from her.

People always leave.

She closes her eyes and licks her lips. People always leave, and Killian is no different. But _she_ ’s different now – stronger, wiser. She isn’t the lost little girl anymore, clinging to her baby blanket because it’s the only thing she owns, the only thing she’ll ever own. She has a roof above her head now, and a brother, a father, friends – a _life_. People no longer get to decide for her, when she’s learnt to take and not give back.

“I’m sorry for breaking up with you,” she says. His small intake of breath gets lost against the sound of the wind and the waves. “I shouldn’t have. Because you were right and I was wrong, and I miss you, and I don’t know what to do now that I no longer eat lunch in the library and – and I miss your texts, and smiling at you between classes. And I know I was a bitch, and I totally understand if you never talk to me again, because I deserve it but–”

“Emma, I’m in love with you.”

She stops.

Stares at him.

Then stares some more.

He smiles at her and the curve of his lips is a little sad even after he blurted out the words, like he’s apologizing – for saying them, not for feeling them. And that’s when her heart starts beating even faster in her chest, when the metaphorical butterflies decide to have a field day in her belly. Her blood run cold and is burning too, her mind heavy and cloudy and light all at once, palms sweaty, mouth dry.

She stares and stares at him as the words settle deep within her – in her bones, in her heart.

“You…” she starts, but comes up with nothing.

Killian shrugs a little – it turns out a little cheeky, even if he probably went for sheepish, and her heart tugs painfully at the sight of it. She wants to ask him to say it again, needs to hear it again, just in case, just to be sure. But she doesn’t dare, not when she knows she can’t say it back. It doesn’t seem fair.

“I…” she tries again, only to come up with the same results.

Annoyed with herself, and a little amused too – she feels so _light_ , like she’s going to fly away – she looks back to the sea with a little chuckle and a shake of the head.

“I know something happened and it left you all…” _Fucked-up_. He doesn’t say it. “And I don’t care what it is. I just care about you. I want to be with you not just because of Lucas but – but because you want to be with me, too.”

She blinks and her vision gets blurry with tears unshed. She smiles, and she laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical but mostly it sounds happy. She sounds happy because she is, and she looks back to him, looks back into his eyes, so big, so hopeful. She smiles once more, bites on her bottom lip even as she leans closer to him.

“Emma,” he says, and it is a question, a confirmation, a love letter.

“Kiss me,” she whispers.

He too happily obliges.

 

…

 

A small smile blossoms on her lips when she enters the library the following day. It has only been a week and a half since the last time she set foot in the room full of books, but she had missed it somehow (as much as she missed him) and it feels good being back there for lunch. The librarian behind the front desk looks equally surprised and pleased to see Emma again, like she was expected not to sight her every again within those four walls. So Emma nods politely to her before she makes her way to their usual table.

It’s empty but his bag is on one of the chairs, so Emma frowns a little even as she does the same with her own bag before turning around with a slight frown, looking for him. She finds him in the History section of the library, reminded of the paper Mr Hooper asked them to write and hand in before Christmas break – of course Killian would start as early as possible, that’s such a Killian thing to do.

He’s rising of his tiptoes when she comes near him, the ghost of a smile on his lips the only clue he knows she’s here even as he doesn’t look her way, too busy trying to reach a book on the top shelf. Her smile only grows bigger, and so does her heart.

“Well, hello there, love,” he says as he stands a little taller to grab the book, to no avail.

His voice is soft and reverent, and it brings a shiver down Emma’s spine. It scares her half to death too, and it would be lying to say she slept well last night – her sleep laced with nightmares of losing him, of him leaving her, when she was lucky enough to find sleep at all. Mostly she just spent the night staring at the ceiling and trying not to panic every time she thought back to their kiss, to his confession, trying not to freak out as the words “couple” and “relationship” came haunting her.

She spent half an hour longer in the bathroom this morning, just to cover the purple bags beneath her eyes. It’s kinda sad.

But you need to kill fire with fire, or so they say, so she takes a large breath before moving a step closer to him.

“I have something to ask you,” she tells him, proud in how even her voice sounds.

The smile turns in some kind of grin as he finally manages to grip the book he was struggling with – Emma isn’t sure he’s grinning at her or at the book, and she isn’t willing to ask. “I’m all ears.”

The moment of truth. “I’m here to ask you out.”

The book slips out of his fingers.

Falls to the floor in a loud _thud_.

The librarian shushes them from her place by the front desk with a glare and a shake of the eyes, to which the both replies with apologizing, innocent smiles. That is, before Killian stares at her, eyes wide and panicking.

“Come again?”

“Please, don’t make me say it again.”

His eyes turn soft and so do his smile. Actually, his entire face lightens up all of a sudden, like he’s a small kid and he was told Christmas comes early this year – which does nothing to quiet the fast beating of her heart or the panicking thoughts crossing her mind.

“All right then,” he replies, voice as soft as the rest. “What did you have in mind?”

She – hadn’t thought that far, actually. “I don’t know.” And then, because it’s the truth, “I don’t really care.”

They could power up the whole town with the light in his eyes as he moves closer to her, puts a hand on her waist. It’s intimate, even more so than the kiss they shared by the docks yesterday, and her breath catches in her throat at the proximity of him. Idly, she wonders about school rules and libraries and making out, but the last thing she wants is a detention for PDA.

“Tell you what,” he says, and grabs a strand of her hair between two fingers before tucking it back behind her ear. Hell, she’s blushing now. “I take care of the planning, you take care of not having a heart attack until then.”

She would slap him on the chest, were it not for the fact that he’s oh-so-right. Instead, she let out a small intake of break, and it sounds like a little chuckle, one that makes him grin wider and – huh, she isn’t sure when he grew so confident, but she can’t say it’s a bad thing.

“Yeah, ok. Let’s do this. Friday good?”

“Friday perfect.”

He grin, quickly brushes his lips against hers.

Her mouth keeps tingling for hours.


	13. Chapter 13

She attacks the following day.

It’s after sixth period, and so he’s done with his classes for the day, shoving some books in his locker, grabbing others to work on his homework tonight. And it’s stupid really, because he knew it would happen sooner or later but – he really had hoped about _later_.

She slaps the locker’s door close, the sound enough to startle him, and he stares at her hand pressed to the door, at her bright red nails not to look at her face. His heart is racing, his mind running, as Killian takes a deep breath, as he braces himself and turns around to face Ruby Lucas.

She looks pissed, of course she does, all frowns and angry eyes and pursed lips. The other guys say she’s the sexiest girl in school, and maybe she is, but mostly she’s the scariest girl in school and it’s enough for him to swallow down audibly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, a threatening whisper if he ever heard one.

He’s seriously, honestly, rightfully thinking of running away as fast and far as possible right now. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he wouldn’t make it to the school’s gate before his lungs and legs would give up on him, not used to exercising. ( _That’s what you get for being a nerd_ , he curses himself. _Basic survival gone wrong_.)

Ruby takes a menacing step towards him, and those basic survival instincts finally kick in as he takes a step backwards. Only for his back to meet the wall behind him, of course. Of _bloody_ course.

“I swear to god if you even think about fucking with her again, I will rip your guts off with my bare hands,” she goes on, pointing a threatening finger at his chest. It may sound ridiculous and over-the-top, as far as ‘hurt her and I hurt you’ speeches go, but her nails are very long and very sharp so Killian can’t tell if she’s serious or not. Knowing Ruby Lucas, she probably is. “I will make your life a living hell, Jones. So don’t you fucking dare–”

“Well, that’s rich coming from you, Lucas,” he hears himself saying, and he swears his heart stops beating because _what is he doing_? Too late, though, so he goes on, meeting her tit for tat. “Maybe you should have thought about Emma’s best interests when you forced her to _date me_.”

Her eyes widen even so slightly, red lips opening in an expression of surprise. _Caught you off-guard, didn’t I_? he wants to ask, but remembers about not tickling a sleeping dragon, and that one is wild awake. So instead, he shoots her a quick, sarcastic grin, and it does the job just fine.

“You knew,” she accuses him.

 _You didn’t_. “Of course I knew. Prettiest girl in town asks me out and you thought I wouldn’t guess something’s off?”

He wants to laugh, almost, because of his Swan – his clever, beautiful Swan who played her friends all along, who kept going with the charade just for a couple of bucks and to piss off her best friend a bit. It’s quite brilliant, really, and he’s surprised he hadn’t seen through her games up until now. He’ll have to congratulate her on that later, really.

Later, when he no longer fears for his own life.

“Still,” she says, voice clipped and annoyed. “If you–”

“I know,” he sighs. “I won’t.”

She looks unconvinced, eyebrow shooting up as she purses her lips once more and folds her arms on her chest. Killian sighs, because he’d hoped he really could go on without having to say it out loud. But desperate times call for desperate measure, apparently, so he scratches the back of his neck before he goes on.

“I’ve been in love with her since I was thirteen, Lucas. Hurting her is the last thing on my mind, trust me.”

Her eyes soften, barely, and her mouth relaxes a bit. Which doesn’t mean she stops looking suspicious of him, but then he remembers the tears in Emma’s eyes, remembers the way she freaked out after he kissed her, and he knows better than to question Ruby’s best intentions. The bet was stupid, but the two friends care about each other, and he finds it good to know someone out there is looking out for Emma, caring about her enough to threaten the four-eyed bookworm nerd who’s taking her to the restaurant this Friday.

“Good,” Ruby says, and it sounds final. “She’s dated too many dickheads already. She needs a cute guy.”

He can’t help it. He swears he can’t help it – the smile comes on its own, the words tumble out of his mouth before he can swallow them back. “You think I’m a cute guy?”

She glares at him again, pokes his chest with her finger. “Don’t push your luck, nerd.”

 

…

 

Miss French gets a little too excited about Jane Austen on Wednesday (and _way_ too excited about Fitzwilliam Darcy for it to be healthy), and so she lets them out fifteen minutes later than usual. That’s fifteen minutes too late to catch the last bus home, and Emma sighs as she shoves her books in her backpack. She doesn’t want to walk home, but August and Marco have been working all week long on a particularly complex rocking chair and so she doesn’t want to be a nuisance by asking any of them to come and give her a ride home.

Walking it will be, then.

She keeps rummaging through her backpack as she leaves the classroom, looking for her iPod to make the walk home a little less depressing. When she finally looks up, her eyebrows shoot up immediately.

“What are you doing here?”

He stands up from where he was leaning again the opposite wall, bag thrown over his shoulder, and shrugs impishly. “I was waiting for you so we could take the bus home together.”

 _Fuck, stop being so adorable_ , she thinks, but it doesn’t sound as bitter as it would have been only a month earlier. Because he is adorable, waiting for her after classes and wanting to take the bus together and looking good with his hands in his pockets and his hair a little ruffled. He’s such a problem.

“So what now?” she asks, rolling her eyes for good measure as they start heading down the hallway and towards the main entrance.

“Well, I can’t offer you a ride home. But I can walk next to you and carry your bag, which is _almost_ the same thing.”

She can’t help it – she pushes his face away, hand against his cheek, and laughs with him when he shakes his head in disbelief. They fall into steps next to each other, even if she doesn’t give him her back to carry (got to draw a line somewhere before it becomes too saccharine sweet), and start a conversation about the upcoming Christmas break and what they’re planning to do – not much, neither of them.

It’s cold outside and she wraps her scarf a little more tightly around her neck, but the walk home isn’t half as bad when she doesn’t have to do it alone. Which is ridiculous, because Killian doesn’t even live in the same neighbourhood and he will be a walking ice cube by the time he makes it back to his own home.

Not that she’s voicing that thought out loud, of course, because – well, it’s nice not having to walk home alone.

She can’t remember the last time a boy did something sweet for her instead of just groping her breasts while making out behind the bleachers, when a boy cared enough to walk her back home and have lunch with her every day and agree to go on a date after she broke up with him. Never is the answer, memories of last summer flashing painfully behind her closed eyelids when she blinks. She pushes the thoughts away, refuses to let them tarnish an otherwise nice moment.

“Ruby said she talked to you yesterday,” she comments, as to force her mind not to settle on her previous thoughts.

Killian theatrically shivers and makes her face, to which she can only laugh. Ruby can have that effect on people, which is equally endearing and terrifying. The brunette had yelled at her for the better part of half an hour after she’d told her about the date, and Emma had just chuckled at how over-the-top her reaction had been.

“Do me a favour, Swan,” he replies, all puppy eyes and pouts. “Next time, send Mary Margaret instead.”

She laughs again and bumps his shoulder with hers. He bumps back. “You kidding, right? Mary Margaret is worse.”

“I fail to see how that’s possible.”

He would, but Emma remembers that time before James was kicked out of school, messing around with his twin’s love life. Mary Margaret’s wrath had been a sight to behold and, to this day, David still swears he saw tears in his brother’s eyes. Emma, as well as half the school, knows better than to push Mary Margaret’s buttons now.

“Be nice and we won’t find your corpse in a dumpster.”

He looks downright horrified, which makes her laugh harder. She’s been doing that a lot lately – laugh at and with him, lips stretching every time her eyes find his blue ones across the hallway, every time her phone pings with a new text. She hates herself for the sappiness of it – Mary Margaret calls it the honeymoon phrase, which isn’t a terrifying way to put it at all.

She freaks out more often than not, but it’s the good kind, the kind that comes with heart flutters and little blushes, so she forces herself not to mind. Easier said than done, but she’s getting there. At least Emma thinks she is. She _wants_ to get there.

“Well, here we are,” Killian says.

She looks up and blinks when she recognizes her own house in front of her. Huh. So lost in her thoughts and in their conversation, she hadn’t realised they were at their destination already. More effective than music could have even been, then, which doesn’t really come off as a surprise to her.

“Yeah, here we are,” she parrots back, before turning to face Killian. “Thank you for the walk home.”

He bows slightly, like the stupid nerd he is. Emma bites down a smile – at least she tries to. “It was my pleasure.”

She turns to the house once more and takes a few steps forwards, before turning back to him again. “Marco is a light sleeper, if you ever think of throwing peddles at my window.”

He laughs, loud and clear in the empty, silent street – the sound warm and familiar by now. And then he winks, though he does so with a blush spreading over his cheeks, like he wants to be cocky but still doesn’t exactly know how. “I’ll forgo the boombox too, then.”

“Bummer.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, and she throws a last smile his way before climbing up the steps leading to the front door. She digs in her coat’s pocket for her keys, and only turns back to him when the door is opened, waving slightly.

He replies by a closed fist raised in the air, and she swears he will be the death of him – which is exactly why she runs inside and slams the door behind her, heart racing and stuttering and doing a hundred other embarrassing things.

Once in her room, Emma lets her bag falls on the floor as she eyes the dress hanging on her wardrobe, the one Mary Margaret lent her yesterday, pink and soft and pretty. Idly, she wonders if the movie got it wrong, if the princess was meant to fall in love with the brain.


	14. Chapter 14

“I miss having long hair,” Mary Margaret sighs

She gathers Emma’s hair up into a high ponytail, fingers swift to wrap the hair tie at the base of it. She then hides it with a strand of hair, everything holding perfectly with a bobby pin. It is Emma’s time to sigh – no matter how hard she tries, she never manages to master the perfect ponytail the way her friend does, which is why she lets her hair fall down her back most of the time. Or into a lazy bun. Or a lazy ponytail. Everything about her is lazy when it comes to her hair.

“Remember Ruby?” she asks with mischief in her eyes, and Mary Margaret laughs in reply.

Her chopping her long, dark hair had come as a surprise to everyone, but nobody had reacted as badly as Ruby. Seriously, there had been tears that day. And a lot of grieving, afterwards. Emma still smirks just thinking about it and about Ruby’s tendencies for drama.

She shakes her head slightly, her eyes finding Mary Margaret’s in the mirror. Her black hair doesn’t fall on her forehead today, fringe held back with an army of pink bobby pins – it suits her alright, gives her that ‘fairy from a far away land’ vibe only Mary Margaret can pull off without looking stupid.

“Every thought of growing it back?”

Her friend shakes her head in reply, lips pursed in a pout, before she spins the chair so that Emma is facing her. She leans forwards to grab the bottle of foundation and a little egg-shaped sponge. Emma tilts her chin up, careful not to move as Mary Margaret starts working on her face.

“And lose my Carey Mulligan look? _Nah_.”

Emma’s lips quirk into a smirk as she huffs a laugh through her nose, but she does her best to stand still despite her amusement.

Mary Margaret had arrived an hour earlier with a bag full of beauty supplies, and had all but pushed Emma towards the shower with more bottles that she knew what to do with – body scrub and lotions and gels and what-have-you. Seriously, it was scary, how well prepared the petit brunette was, as if she was the one getting ready for a date instead of Emma.

Emma, who would have been fine with just some eyeliner and gloss, thank you very much. Mary Margaret had gasped at that statement, pressing a hand to her heart and whispering that it was worse than she thought. Whatever.

And here they are now, dolling Emma up like she’s about to attend a Gala at the MET instead of an evening out with her boyfriend. (Her heart does a loop at the word.) Which may or may not be a good thing, because it keeps Emma’s thoughts away from her nervousness, all the while reminding her that this is a _freaking date_ and she has every right to be nervous. She is nervous. She is terrified.

“Don’t you have anything to do on a Friday night?”

Mary Margaret and David have been dating for so long now that they look like an old married couple more than anything, but Emma knows they go out sometimes. Or even spend their evenings in Mary Margaret’s bedroom. Which isn’t gross at all to think about – like, she knows her friends get on with it, but it’s like picturing your parents having sex, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. So she’d rather not think about it at all, and thankfully Mary Margaret isn’t one to talk about her sexual performances; (Unlike Ruby. Geez.)

“No, don’t worry,” Mary Margaret replies with a smile. “George is out of town so David wanted to spend some time alone with Ruth.”

Mary Margaret is on first name basis with her future in-laws. Emma can’t even look Liam Jones in the eyes without worrying for her life. She shakes her head mentally to keep those thoughts away, and focus on sitting still for her friend to apply eye shadow to her lids.

It takes them ten more minutes before Mary Margaret deems Emma ready, and so she turns to look at her face in the mirror. The makeup is discreet but pretty – she thinks people call it _nude_ – just enough to show she put some effort into but she didn’t try to hard. Perfect. Not that Killian seems to care about those things, but you know. At least she feels pretty, and perhaps it’s all that matter.

Mary Margaret claps her eyes behind her, eyes all misty, her smile proud if a little trembling. Emma rolls her eyes. “Please, don’t take pictures.”

She does anyway.

 

…

 

The doorbell startles them both, and Emma throws a panicking look Mary Margaret’s way, to which the brunette replies with a reassuring smile. Or what is supposed to be one, because it doesn’t work at all. Still, Emma forces herself to take a deep breath before she grabs her small purse and leaves her room. She’s careful in the stairs, because the last thing she needs is to fall in her high heels literally five minutes before her date starts. August comes out of the kitchen at that moment, caring a mug of coffee and enough snacks to last all night, and he gives her a look-over and a thumb-up before going to lock himself in his room.

As far as August goes, this is the highest praise she’ll get.

She takes another breath as her fingers wrap around the front door’s handle, and then the breath is knocked out of her lungs. Literally.

He looks – everything but what she is used to, glasses gone, nerdy t-shirt traded for a nice shirt and a freaking leather jacket, small smile on his lips. Geez, he looks _good_ , and she blinks once or twice before she meets his eyes. He flushes under her gaze – yup, still her nerdy boyfriend – and stutters his words a little.

“You look lovely, Swan.”

And then he’s giving her a rose, a damn freaking red rose, and she swears she’s blushing too. “Right back at you.”

They just – don’t do anything at all, just stare at each other with silly grins and pink cheeks, and she’s a goner. She knew she liked him alright, but she stops arguing with the butterflies in her stomach and the fire in her veins, because he’s looking at her like he couldn’t care less about anyone else in the world, and she’s _a goner_.

(There’s the flash of a camera behind her. She’s going to kill Mary Margaret.)

“We should go, maybe,” he says, and it sounds like a question. Like he’s not sure, like he’s afraid she’ll cancel on him now. Her smile grows bigger, fonder, before she holds a finger and runs to the kitchen, finds the first glass tall enough to pass as a vase for her rose.

When she comes back, fingers a little wet and feelings in check (for now), Mary Margaret is nowhere to be seen and Marco tells her to be back by midnight. Killian nods solemnly at her foster father before taking her hand, and then he thinks better of it and puts his hand on the small of her back as he leads her to his car.

“You like Italian, right?” he asks her once he’s behind the wheel. (He opened her door for her and helped her inside and her heart keeps doing that weird fluttering thing, melting and growing both at once.)

“Yeah, pizzas and pasta are great,” she replies with a little laugh.

Tony’s, he’s taking her to _Tony’s_ – the fanciest restaurant in all of Storybrooke, with real napkins made of real tissue and candles on the tables. Fucking hell, this is such a real, official date.

He holds her chair for her and sits opposite her on the small table, and they don’t quite manage to convince the waiter to serve them white wine so they settle for apple juice instead. It doesn’t change much from their library lunches, with the same kind of easy conversation they have every day at school, but he takes her hand and runs his thumb over her knuckles and Emma stops caring about her racing heart halfway through their date. She just allows herself to enjoy it, and things get easier from there as her nerves calm down.

She laughs about spaghetti with meatballs, making him flush (they choose pizzas instead), but they still share a dessert in the end, two spoons for one cup of ice cream and a slice of chocolate cake, and she doesn’t even hides her grin when she looks at him.

(Did she say she’s a goner? Because she definitely is.)

The temperature has dropped by the time they come out of the restaurant, but Emma barely has time to curse herself for not having a jacket – it’s almost winter, what was she thinking? – that Killian carefully drapes his leather jacket around her shoulders. She smiles up at him, even more so when he takes her hand, and lets him lead her towards the car, their steps slower than usual. He’s staling but so is she, and so Emma isn’t surprised when he stops by the side of the car without opening the door, instead standing in front of her as he takes both her hands in hers.

This close, she notices the faint circle of the contact lenses around his eyes, the small scar on his cheek, the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. She takes a step forwards and closer to him – her heels make her taller, and so she won’t have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss him when it inevitably happens.

“I had fun tonight,” she tells him, voice low and, dare she say, a little husky.

Killian smiles back at him, the curve of his lips as bashful as it is smug – she still doesn’t know how he manages to do that, but it’s a good look on him so she isn’t one to complain. Their fingers entwined, he pulls her closer still until only a few inches stand between them, his warm breath tingling on her skin, on her mouth. The shiver that runs down her spine has little to do with the cold weather.

“So did I,” he replies, his voice just as breathless. “But we’ll have to do better next time.”

“Next time?” she asks in a chuckle, and he adverts his eyes. “I don’t remember asking.”

His smile drops even so slightly as he looks up to her, seriousness settling on his features. “Because it’s my turn. Will you go out with me again?”

She doesn’t answer – not in so many words, at least. Instead, she erases what little distance still remained between them, breasts softly pressed to his chest as she captures his mouth into a kiss. They’ve done it before, more than once, but it feels different this time, slow and patient in the shift of their relationship – it ignites a lazy fire under her skin as his hands settle on her hips, then higher, one around her waist while the other come to cup her jaw, tilting her head to the side an deepening the kiss.

Somewhat, she registers the fact that they’re making out on a parking lot like the horny teenagers they most definitely are, but Emma can’t find it in herself to care when she nibbles on his bottom lip, wrenching a groan from the back of his throat.

When they come out for breath, Killian presses his forehead against her, eyes still close as his tongue darts to his upper lip. He seems to hesitate for a moment, brush back on his cheeks with a fury, before he looks at her in the eyes.

“Liam is out for the night.”

He doesn’t say more than that, but her heart dances a painful staccato against her ribcage at the implications laced in that simple statement. She isn’t surprised – they did make out like horny teenagers not ten seconds earlier – but her stomach is in knots at the thought of it, her head suddenly heavy, her breathing shallower. Still, she holds her head high and forces a smile on her lips, one she hopes not to be too forced, too fake.

“Okay, yes,” she says, and his answering grin dazzles her for a second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... reviews? :D


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in 24 hours, what is happening?! (Don't get used to it...)

She’s never been in his bedroom before, only familiar with the front door of the house and that one glimpse of the entrance hall. Emma didn’t exactly know what she expected of his bedroom, and so she finds herself staring at the walls – posters everywhere, mostly Marvel movies and one of Pacific Rim – as well as the shelves above his desk – lots of books and little figurines. His bed is neatly made, there’s a print of the periodic table next to his computer screen and absolutely nothing on the floor. She didn’t exactly know what she expected, but it would have been something like that, probably.

And, alright, maybe she’s staring at the walls for longer than is appropriate, but she hopes it will help calming her racing heart – if anything else, it goes even faster when she notices how comfortable his pillow seems to be and, oh well.

“Emma,” Killian says softly, yet still manages to startle her.

Her eyes are wide open when she looks back at him, but she sees the same insecurities dancing in his blue irises and – _fuck_ , he probably never has done this before, which makes it even worse for him, and yet she’s the one freaking out and almost having a meltdown on the spot. This is ridiculous.

“Sorry,” she whispers, putting a smile back on her lips. “I zoned out for a second.”

He smiles back, though it looks forced, and gestures for her (his) jacket. She shrugs it off, and then stands there, not really knowing what to do with her arms, or with herself. Which is weird – she’s done this before, she knows how it works. So she forces herself to snap out of it, whatever this is, and takes Killian’s hand in hers after he’s put the jacket back in his closet. They stare at each other, uncertain, bashful, before a snort escapes through his nose and he shakes his head, cheek flushing already.

“I’m bad at this, I’m sorry.”

Which may be the understatement of the century, but at least it makes Emma smiles as she takes a step forwards and wraps her arms around his neck. “What about we just kiss for now?”

“Kissing is good. Kissing is great.”

Her smile widens with a breathless giggle, and then he’s actually kissing her, hesitant and tentative. She leads them to the bed, walking backwards until the back of her knees presses against the mattress. They break the kiss to lie down, because he’s good but not _that_ good, and then they’re back at it again, his hands on her waist like he doesn’t dare doing anything else. It makes her smile – they’ve never properly made out before, just a little kiss here and there, and this is probably new territory for him. Maybe they’re going too fast. Probably. She doesn’t know.

And then he’s doing that thing with his tongue, and she groans into his mouth, hand tightening its hold in his hair, and it seems to do the trick, to make him bolder. As bold as her nerdy boyfriend can get, at least, which is not much – his hand moves up ever so slightly, fingers grazing the skin beneath her breast, and that’s about it.

So she takes his hand, fingers lacing through his, and moves it further up until it closes around the soft flesh of her breast, until her back arches at the barely there pressure he applies. He breaks the kiss then, to look at himself groping her – his eyes are darkened with lust, warmth pooling in her belly at the sight of them.

“Is it good?” he asks, definitely breathless.

“’S great, keep going.”

Killian goes for another kiss then, but it gets a little sloppy and so his mouth land on her jaw instead. She arches her neck, more of a reflex than anything; he takes the hint, though, and she shivers when he kisses the sensitive flesh there – he’s always been a fast learner. He takes to exploring her neck, her collarbone, small butterfly kisses following her throat and the curve of her shoulders, having her dig her fingers in his arm to hold on to something, anything. She isn’t used to that, to the reverence he seems to pour in each stroke of lips against skin, in every touch and caress. She isn’t used to slow and loving, and it leaves her breathless and a little dizzy, but mostly it leaves her begging for more and cursing him – virgins aren’t supposed to be that good.

“Killian,” she whispers, her voice broken and hoarse. She pulls on his hair, for good measure. “Do you have condoms?”

He stops his kissing to look at her, lips red and swollen and – fuck, she rubs her thighs together at the sight. With a nod, too eager, too fast, he leans on the side to opens the drawer of the bedside table, almost topples over in his haste. Emma snorts and closes her eyes, forcing herself not to burst into laughter even if her body jumps with barely contained snickers – he’s too cute, she can’t help it.

He wrinkles his nose when he looks back to her, box of condoms in hand – his hair is a mess and his crunched-up face adorable, and Emma giggles a little more loudly. She feels giddy all of a sudden, and pulls him back to her with both hands grabbing his shoulders, settling into another kiss. She loses herself in it – tongue and mouth and teeth – before she opens her legs to him, dress riding up her thighs.

There is no ignoring his hard-on when his hips press against hers, and she groans into his mouth at the desire surging through her veins. His hands finally start moving, one gabbing her leg, the other moving up and down her side before finding her breast once more. It’s hesitant and a little messy, a reminder of his inexperience in such matters, but it feels _good_ too and – it’s all that matters.

“Emma,” he mumbles against her lips.

He sounds wrecked, and she can only smile wickedly as she pushes him off her to stand up in front of him – on wobbly legs, mind you. Her gaze doesn’t waver from his eyes as she reaches behind her back to pull on the zipper of her dress. Killian’s eyes follow its path as it falls down her body softly and gathers at her feet, then he looks up, taking her all in. She feels self-conscious all of a sudden, standing there in her underwear, but he’s looking at her like she’s a treasure and he’s the luckiest boy in the world, fingers trembling as he raises up a hand to brush against her hip.

She falls into his embrace, unable to stay away for a second longer, and loses herself in him – flurry of kisses and breathless moans as she rids him of his clothes. His mouth explores the skin beneath her collarbone, no doubt leaving little purple marks along the way, as his shoes fall to the floor next to her dress, and she closes her eyes at the warmth of him, so overwhelming she doesn’t know what to do of it.

Only when her fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers does he stop her, his hand on top of hers. When he looks at her, his eyes are wide and a little afraid. “I – I’ve never –”

“I know.”

“What if…” He gulps, the red in his cheeks no longer heat but shame. “What if I’m bad at it?”

 “Then you’ll get better.” She smiles and kisses his cheek. “Trust me, whatever you do, it’ll be better than morons who think they know better than me what I like.”

A frown appears on his forehead as he stares at her for long seconds, searching for something into her eyes – what, she doesn’t know. When he finally lets go of her hands, fingers wrapping around her hip once more, it’s with the twinkle of a new determination in his eyes.

“What do you like?”

She licks her bottom lips around the grin blossoming on her mouth. Hand on his neck, she pulls him down into another kiss. “Not bad at all, Jones.”

He laughs into her mouth, a nervous chuckle, but lets her move around just enough to get rid of her bra and underwear. She takes his hand in hers then, leading it between her legs, and her exhale of breath matches his when his fingers press against her flesh, wet and sensible. She bites on her lip as the sensation running up her spine before she exhales through her nose and focuses.

“Okay, so. Like, small circles, just there.” She guides his thumb to her little bundle of nerves, startles when he actually starts doing as she says – hesitantly at first, then more certain when she lets her head fall back against the pillow, mouth open in a wordless moan. “Okay – you can add – oh _fuck_.”

As if privy to her thoughts, he adds two fingers, pumping in and out of her in rhythm with the slow strokes against her clit, making her see stars behind her closed lids. It’s a bit ridiculous, how turned-on she is by all of this, no matter how hesitant Killian is – it doesn’t really matter, actually. She just grabs his face between her hands and pulls him to her into a messy kiss, all tongues and teeth, as his fingers keep working on her, driving her crazy.

And then it’s no longer enough, the need within her too big, too intense, and so she grabs his boxers once more, pulls them down his hips in one swift, if a little hurried and desperate, movement. Killian gets the message in a matter of seconds, and then they’re fumbling to put on the condom, all groans and moans and little laughs when they realise they’re going way too fast for it to actually work.

Emma can’t remember the last time she laughed with a guy during sex – if she ever at all. Graham was soft and attentive, but way too focused on their pleasure for anything else to happen. Neal was – yeah. And the other ones weren’t any better. So it is a novelty to her, and maybe she could get used to it too, could get used to having fun during sex and not just get down to business.

Killian only stops when he’s nestled between her legs, looks up at her with wonder in his eyes – it’s too much and not enough, and she only finds herself nodding her consent, because she doesn’t trust her mouth with words right now. She nods and grabs him, relishes in his low growl as she guides him inside her. Slowly, too slowly, until she grabs his ass and just pulls him towards her – there is something definitely not nerdy in the noise Killian makes then, in the way he bites down on her shoulder to keep himself grounded. (She could get used to that, too.)

“Fuck,” he swears against her skin, and tentatively moves his hips. “Fucking _fuck_.”

“I know,” she replies with a chuckle. “Now _move_.”

He does so, slowly at first, as if testing the new sensation – his eyelids close in concentration, biting down on his bottom lip with a frown – before he settles into an easy rhythm, one that has her breathing going hoarse and broken. It’s not exactly perfect – they’ll have to work on it, to polish the details – but the feeling of him inside her is great anyway, and she lets herself enjoy it.

One hand wrap around his bicep while the other stays on his ass – and what a perfect ass, seriously, she never want not to grab it ever again – and his name tumbles out of her mouth, over and over again whispered and moaned and sung.

She knows not to be startled when it’s over before it truly begins – it’s his first time, after all, and she guesses he doesn’t have that great a stamina to begin with. Still, when his hips pump a little more quickly against hers, out of synch, she runs her fingers through his hair, kisses him to swallow the groan that comes with his release.

His forehead is sweaty when he presses it to her shoulder, his breathed ragged against her skin. She smiles and kisses the top of his head, wriggles her toes at the feeling of him going slack inside her.

“You okay there, champ?” she asks him softly, the hint of teasing in her voice.

“ _Fuck_!” is his only reply, one that has her bite on her lip not to openly laugh. But then he looks up to her and, even with lust still clouding his eyes, he frowns at her. “You didn’t – bloody hell – I – oh _god_.”

And back are the red cheeks – she had almost missed them, truly. Not that she minds not getting off this time. At least she didn’t have to pretend just to stroke the guy’s ego, because there is nothing worse than make those fake porn-like sounds at the back of her throat just for the heck of it.

She kisses his cheek, lingers there for longer than is necessary. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. We’ll do better next time.”

“Okay. Give me ten minutes and…” She arches an eyebrow. “Give me _half an hour_.”

The laugh bubbles out of her chest before she can stop it this time, and Killian makes a face at her before he’s laughing too, hands settling possessively on her lips as he hides his nose in the crook of her neck. He huffs then, a little embarrassed but definitely tired, and presses his lips to her skin.

“I should probably pick up running, or something. It could help.”

“Oh yeah. I can definitely see you running laps with Graham and David.”

The sound he makes is, like, only half-offended. Probably because he knows she’s right. She’s definitely right – they shared PE classes last year, and it was really sad. Still, it warms her heart a little that he would be willing to improve his stamina, just to be good in bed; not many guy really care, as long as they get off. And they always do.

So she smiles to no one in particular as she keeps playing with his hair, and they stay like that for a while longer before she helps him with the condom and they fall back in bed – under the covers this time. Emma puts her head on Killian’s chest as he wraps an arm around her, and draws random patterns on his stomach as she listens to the steady beating of his heart.

He doesn’t doze off, if the movement of his hand in her hair is anything to go by, but they don’t feel like filling the silence with conversation. Not at first, at least. Because her mind keeps wandering back to everything that happened that evening, a thought always nagging her, a low whisper of _tell him, tell him_.

She sighs, and licks her lips.

“Killian?” He hums under his breath. “I need to tell you something.”


	16. Chapter 16

“I need to tell you something.”

With her ear pressed to his chest, she can’t ignore the way his entire body tenses beneath her, nor his heart beating a little faster all of a sudden. His fingers still in her hair as he takes a sharp intake of air, and she moves even so slightly so she can look at him in the eyes. Killian is frowning down at her, eyes unreadable.

“Please, tell me it’s not another bet.”

“What? No. Of course  _not_!”

The red of shame creeps up her cheeks as Emma realises where his thought went – that he has every right to believe she could have another bet going with Ruby, knowing their past in such affairs. It will take time to fully gain his trust, she guesses, not that she should expect it to go any other way. That bet of theirs was distasteful, after all. She just – was hoping he knew better than to believe her still ready to play that way with his feelings (not to mention hers).

She lets her head fall on his chest, forehead to his collarbone, and forces herself not to stutter the most embarrassing of apologies once more. Thankfully, Killian runs his fingers down her hair again and, when she peaks up at him through her lashes, his features are softer, his frown gone.

“What is it, then?”

Her tongue darts out to wet her upper lip as she struggles for words during long seconds. She never spoke of it before, swallowing down the feelings and memories alike, hoping it would help her forget, help her move past it – a beautiful dream, but reality was uglier. With a sigh, she breaks eye contact, unable to look at him directly. Instead, she lies back down, her cheek to his shoulder once more, closing her eyes a little too tightly.

“This summer, I –” she starts, then stops, and sighs. “His name was Neal. I met him this summer. I was at the mall and he just, you know, started flirting with me out of the blue.”

Even if he doesn’t stop the motion of his fingers in her hair, his hand is suddenly stiffer, less delicate, as if bracing himself for things to come. Emma understands the feeling all too well, for it matches the dread in the pit of her stomach as she recalls the events of her summer.

“He seems nice, so I agreed on a date. And then another and, you know, we started dating. Or something. And then…”

“You had sex with him,” Killian finishes for her, his voice tense with anger instead of jealousy. Emma didn’t exactly expect that of him, but then again he’s been at the receiving end of her insecurities for months now; it doesn’t come as that big of a surprise that he would be upset at whoever hurt her.

“I did. And it was nice, I like him. But then…” A knot in her throat has her stammering on her words before she swallows down and curses herself at the blurriness of her vision. She’s refused to cry for him ever since it happened, but of course she would start now of all times. She blinks, twice, and goes on. “I was late. I’m never late, and I was and – and I freaked out. I told Neal, because I was so scared and he just – blew up in my face. Told me it was my fault, I should have been more careful, and he wanted nothing to do with me.”

“Emma…” he breathes her name, fingers tightening their hold in her hair, protectively, possessively.

“I’m on the pill,” she tells him, and hates herself for the need to explain herself, for the shame creeping up her mind. “And I use condoms. I always use condoms. But it’s not, like, a hundred per cent sure, and sometimes things happen and – it wasn’t my fault.”

The last words come out in a sob, the tears hot on her cheeks as she presses her nose to Killian’s collarbone, sniffing pathetically against his skin. He drops a kiss to the top of her head, pulls her closer to him. “It wasn’t your fault,” he echoes softly.

“I took the bus as far away from town as possible because I was so scared I would meet someone I knew, and then I bought a test, and the biggest bottle of coke in the shop and... You know that scene in Juno? It was me. I bought three different tests, because I was so afraid it was all false negative. And then I freaked out until my period came. I’ve never been more relieved in my life than that day. It was awful. And all I could think was the way he’d looked at me, like I was so worthless and…”

She doesn’t think she could be closer to him than she already is, but Killian proves her wrong as he pulls her even closer, until she’s half on top of him. There is something reassuring in the hardness of his chest, the way his heart beats steadily and his soft breathing against her hair. She shuts her eyes tight, if only for the tears to stop, and lets herself be comforted by him.

“You shouldn’t have gone through this alone,” he says after what feels like a lifetime of silence. “Is it why you kept me at arm’s way?”

She doesn’t trust herself to reply, not in so many words, so she just nods instead, and he nods in reply before kissing the top of her head once more. They stay like this, clinging to one another, for a few more minutes.

“I tried to imagine what would have happened if it had been you, and I could only picture you holding my hand as I bought the test and –”

He snorts, and she doesn’t need to look up to picture him rolling his eyes now. “Let’s hope it’ll never come down to this for you to understand I’m not an asshole.”

Hearing Killian curse is always a bit strange, because he barely does it at all, and it successfully brings a smile to her lips. When she moves in his embrace to fold her arms on his elbows, he smiles back and raises a hand to wipe the tears on her cheeks.

Yes, she knows, he’s one of the good ones – it’s still hard to accept not all people are willing to leave her behind, even with Marco, even with Mary Margaret and Ruby. It’s even harder to accept with Killian, because this is all so new and she’s all so broken but – she knows, deep down, that he would never hurt her on purpose.

“Now, love,” he says, and grins cheekily at her, before glancing at the clock on his bedside table. “It’s only eleven, so what do you want to do before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin?”

She smirks, and kisses him.

 

…

 

He lies on his stomach, hugging his pillow, as he watches Emma navigate through the bedroom with a smile on his lips. He’s feeling sleepy, but mostly he’s feeling light and happy, because she only wears her underwear and a t-shirt of his, Marvel logo stretching across her breasts and fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide her legs and the curve of her ass. He’s so in love with her it’s a bit ridiculous, even more so when she’s half-naked in front of him, looking through the books on his shelves with open curiosity.

Killian still can’t believe what happened tonight, still is unable to process everything – the date and the sex, but mostly her confessions, how she opened up to him and shared her deepest secrets. How she trusts him enough to keep those secrets safe, how she trusts him enough to show him those weaknesses she so hates about herself.

He’s so in love with her and, for the first time since they started this whole thing in September, he’s toying with the idea that she could love him too. And that may be the most amazing feeling in the world, so he won’t swallow down his silly grins as he looks at her, takes her all in until his heart almost bursts.

“What’s this?” she asks as she grabs something off the shelf. She holds the chain in front of her eyes, frowning at the key dangling from it like it holds all the answers to the universe.

“It’s the key to the Tardis,” he replies simply, wills himself not to blush when she quirks an eyebrow and throw him  _that_  look, the one that means  _gosh,_   _you’re such a nerd_.

He may be a nerd but he’s her nerd, so there’s that.

“Do you cosplay too?” she asks as she puts the key back in its place. “Should I brace myself for Comic Con? Matching costumes?”

He laughs, deep and loud – and maybe he has to force himself not to picture her wearing this or that outfit, just to keep himself sane for a little while longer. But the Marvel logo is still on her breasts and, damn him, she would look so good as Carol Danvers. Or Black Canary. Or even Sharon Carter. Bloody Hell.

 “I don’t cosplay,” he replies after a while, but she still looks unconvinced, so he lets it slide and goes back to watching her as she keeps exploring his bedroom like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Which, not really, but Killian won’t complain when she looks overly invested and interested in everything the room has to offer.

She smiles at a pictures of him and Liam, taken on their boat this summer, and he idly thinks that he needs a picture of her there too, even if she’s already his phone background and he sees her five days a week at school. It just feels like the kind of thing people in a relationship could do, and he doesn’t want to mess things up with her.

She grabs another picture, one of him that was taken by his mother on the first day of school, and shows the frame to him with the most adorable pout she can muster. Killian laughs even as he hides his face in the pillow beneath him in embarrassment. Bloody hell, the girl took his virginity and now she’s making fun of him for his baby pictures – this is beyond embarrassing, at this point.

“I should go back home,” she says at last, even if she doesn’t really seem to care all that much about her curfew, browsing through his comic books. “I mean, Marco doesn’t really mind, but I don’t want to push my luck.”

“Sure,” Killian replies, leaning forwards with a sigh to grab his boxers.

He’s putting his pants back when she grabs one of the comic books with a gleeful little sound at the back of her throat. Fingers playing with his belt, he looks up to find her opening the book, and only catches a glimpse of the cover, nothing but a blur of colours.

“You’ve got the female Thor ones!” she exclaims happily.

He thought he couldn’t be more in love with her.

He was so very wrong.

Killian moves closer to her so he can hug her from behind, arms tight around her waist as he presses a kiss to the nape of her neck before burying his face in the crook of her nose. Emma’s hand settles above his and she leans against his chest, head tilted to the side so it rests against his.

“You’re bloody perfect,” he whispers against her skin, and drops a kiss there too.

 

…

 

(He gives her a bag so she can pack the comic books, because of course she wants to borrow and read them, and helps her put her dress back on, his fingers skimming over her skin when he pulls the zipper up her back. It brings a shiver down her spine, and he grins.)

(He pretends he doesn’t notice when she discreetly shoves the t-shirt in the bag, too.)

 

…

 

(When Liam comes back home the following morning, Killian is grinning into his bowl of cereals like the bloody fool he is. Liam barely glances his way before he rolls his eyes and opens the fridge to grab the bottle of milk.

“Why do you look like a knob? Did you get laid or something?”

Killian’s grin only grows bigger, and Liam chokes on his milk.)


	17. Chapter 17

“Okay, just so we’re clear,” Ruby says as she settles cross-legged on the bed, a huge bowl of popcorn between her open thighs. “Graham is still better than him, right?”

Mary Margaret makes a little sound at the back of her throat, one that is equally amused and offended at the cheerleader’s crude behaviour, while Emma grabs her pillow and presses it against her face to hide her blush. Ruby had declared Sunday afternoon to be their girl’s night without it actually be dark outside, and so they’re now all pilling on Emma’s bed with some random chick flick on Netflix and the need to know every detail about her date with Killian.

Which she had given. Well, not in as many details as Ruby would have liked, but just the right amount to keep her best friend’s curiosity sated and her own privacy in check. It’s still embarrassing, though, talking about her sexual life with her friends – probably because she is used to Ruby doing all the talking on that particular subject.

“Why are you asking anyway?” Mary Margaret asks, always the pragmatic one.

Even with the pillow still against her face, Emma points to her, as if to prove she has a point.

“Wait. Don’t tell me we have that unspoken rule of never fucking someone your friend fucked first, because it is so unfair if we do.”

“Weren’t you dating Victor, last time I check?” Emma asks, finally letting go of the pillow. She shares a look with Mary Margaret, who looks just as confused as Emma feels. Which, good, because Emma doesn’t want to be the kind of girl who forgets about her friends the moment she’s dating a guy. But also, not so good, because Ruby somewhat forgot to mention that to both of them, and it’s weird coming from her.

Ruby waves her hand, apparently not all that bothered about her relationship status. “He had that weird mad scientist vibe going on, it was getting creepy. We don’t all share a kink for nerds.”

Emma gives Ruby her _fuck you_ smile.

Her kink is the fucking best, okay.

“Anyway,” Ruby goes on. “Graham. Fuckable or not?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You’re probably going to scar him for life, but go at it if you want. I don’t care.”

Mary Margaret looks ecstatic about the last three words, as if they are proof enough that the wedding is happening this summer and she definitely is the maid of honour. Emma kind of wants to shove a mouthful of popcorn down her throat.

“I’m happy it went well,” Mary Margaret says instead, like she’s Emma’s fairy godmother and she just turned Killian’s pick-up back into a pumpkin, or something.

Emma rolls her eyes, but she also says, “So am I.”

 

…

 

If there’s one thing Emma knows about herself, it’s that she hates PDA.

She is always the first in line to say ‘ew, get a room’ when Mary Margaret get all lovey dovey with David during lunch breaks, and also the first in line to claim that Valentine’s Day is a commercial holiday so she really doesn’t care. Handholding? No, thank you. Cuddling? Please, don’t.

But if there’s one thing Emma knows about Killian, it’s that he has really great arms.

Like, it’s kind of ridiculous how good his arms are, when she knows for a fact that he failed every exam in every PE class they ever had and that he would be the first to go in a zombie apocalypse because everyone would be running faster and for longer than him. It’s a little sad, really, he’s borderline on having asthma attacks when he has to climb up the stairs.

Still, good arms, though. Arms she loves to have around her.

So, yeah, maybe Emma is a little into PDA these days, but she blames it on her boyfriend’s biceps. Also on having a boyfriend who actually treats her right for once, and a boyfriend she doesn’t see herself breaking up with, so she kind of, sort of, maybe, wants to show everyone that she’s dating him.

Which isn’t a very Emma Swan thing to do, all things considered, but she doesn’t really find it in herself to care when she finds him by the lockers on Monday morning and rises on her tiptoes to kiss him, in front of everyone. Because he’s her boyfriend and she _likes him_ likes him, so she doesn’t really care if people are watching and whispering.

“Hey yourself,” he says when she breaks the kiss, with that silly dopey smile of his. He brushes a strand of hair away from her face, tucks it delicately behind her ear, and Emma’s heart is racing a little faster as she grins back.

“See you at the library?”

She doesn’t really have to ask, knows he will be there no matter what, but she feels giddy and happy and like reminding him she will see him soon. The other Emma, the one she was before, wants to facepalm at her behaviour, but she kicks that Emma in the shin and lets herself enjoy the moment.

Killian wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her to him just so, and kisses her cheek softly. His arm is solid against her back, and she presses a hand to his chest as she smiles into his embrace. That’s when she knows she’s doomed, because she never wants him to let go, never wants not to be in his arms, and it’s so foreign and new a thought she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“That you will,” he says, and lets go of her.

She doesn’t whimper, but it’s a close thing.

Emma Swan hates PDA, always had, but Killian Jones winks at her with that boyish grin of his and, long story short, she can see herself getting used to it.

 

…

 

Christmas break arrives all of a sudden, and Emma stares at the calendar on her phone for a very long time, wondering about time and how fast it passes when she isn’t watching. She doesn’t look forwards to sharing the house with August during the break, because it almost always end with them at each other’s throat over dirty dishes or long showers, but she does look forwards to sleeping in and stuffing herself with chocolate and eggnog.

Killian’s brother is still working, only having Christmas day off, which means Killian is lucky to have his house for himself through the entire break. Which almost means Emma is at his house every other day, discovering the joys of hours of making-out and heavy petting.

(Her lips get chapped from kissing him too much but she puts it on the cold weather outside as she buys yet another tub of Chapstick.)

They have sex once during the week before Christmas, and she shows him how to use his fingers and tongue to get her off, which is all kinds of great. She particularly loves the sight of his bright eyes and wet mouth when her legs are on his shoulders, looking up at her like she’s the best thing since sliced bread.

(Sliced bread is overrated, anyway.)

It is on one such day, right after Christmas, that she decides to give Killian his birthday present. They agreed on little gifts and small gestures – despite her newfound romantic side, Emma still resents presents as a display of affection, they sound too fake and forced to her – and she found hers almost too easily perhaps. She’s afraid of what he will think of it, mostly because she ate too much of Granny’s chocolate cake during Christmas dinner and so her stomach isn’t as flat as she would like it to be. Not that Killian would care about it, but it’s still a thought that crosses her mind as she waits for him on the bed in nothing but her underwear.

She stands up as soon as she hears him climbing up the stairs, even if she doesn’t really know what to do with her body until Killian is actually opening the door, entering backwards with a tray of snacks and drinks in his hands.

Tray he almost drops to the floor when he turns around. He doesn’t, but it’s a close thing, and he stares at her with wide eyes and an open mouth – stares at her breasts, actually, at the Captain America bra she found on Etsy and thought would be perfect for some reason. (She was right.)

“Merry Christmas?” she asks a little tentatively, because he’s still frozen on the spot and it’s been a full minute already.

That sets him into motion, scrambling to put the tray on his desk before he moves closer to her until his fingers start playing with the little bow she tied around the bra’s strap – it’s a present, after all, it needed a bow. He doesn’t look away from her body, and she feels herself flushing beneath his gaze, until his lips crash against her, arms snaking around her waist to pull her close. She moans, both at the kiss and at his hard-on against her stomach, pulling him with her until they fall on the bed together.

He kisses down the column of her throat immediately, only stopping once his lips reach the hem of her bra. She arches her back, already expecting him to fumble with the clasp and get rid of the garment, but he pushes her back softly against the mattress, looking up to her through his lashes.

“It stays on”, he says with a crooked grin, and Emma can only huff a giggle through her nose as he goes back to kissing every inch of skin he finds on his way to her navel. He helps her slip out of her panties before kissing the jut of her hip, and then he’s crawling up her body to kiss her again, messy and hungry.

She loses herself in the kiss, his mouth swallowing her moans as his fingers travel down her stomach, teasing her in feather-like touches (damn him for learning what she likes so fast) before cupping her where she needs him most. He doesn’t wait another second, pulling one then two fingers inside her – her back arches and she bites down on his bottom lip not to cry out at the rhythm he sets.

It occurs to her that he’s still fully clothed, but she doesn’t find it in herself to care when he’s smiling against her mouth, loving and bashful, like he can’t believe he’s the one responsible for such responses from her, for every moan and pant out of her mouth. She doesn’t find it in herself to care when her orgasm is building up so fast she should be embarrassed about it – she had the bra for a week, plenty enough time to get excited about it too – and then she’s seeing stars, a long moan wrenched out of her mouth, his lips on her neck and his fingers still moving as she rides out her orgasm.

Emma gives herself ten seconds to catch her breath before she rids him of his clothes, Killian helping with jerky movements and hoarse chuckles. They reach for the bedside table at the table, eliciting another laugh from both of them, before he grabs a condom and puts it on hurriedly. She jerks him twice before guiding him into her, his nails leaving imprints on her skin from grasping her thigh too tightly as he enters her in one snap of his hips against hers.

(The whole shebang is not really smooth, but they’re working on it.)

She grabs his biceps as he moves above her and, yes, his arms are probably what she loves most about him – or his shoulders. Or the way his hair fall in front of his eyes and clings to his forehead a bit. Or his eyes and how blue, how deep they are when he looks at her, cloudy with lust and love as he keeps moving inside her until all she can do is move a hand down her own body and rub at the bundle of nerves where his body meets hers, rub and rub until she’s out of breath once more, his name escaping her mouth in a whine.

Yes, definitely his eyes.

His eyes and the weight of him above her when he comes, nose pressed to her collarbone, fingers drumming a pattern against her hip. His eyes and his lips, stretching into a smile, his mouth, finding her in a lazy kiss. His eyes and his chest, how she snuggles so comfortably against his side, how he wraps an arm around her shoulder and puts her even closer. But his eyes, mostly.

She closes hers, and breathes him in, wonders how long they have until Liam comes back home and she has to leave. How long she has until putting back her clothes and kissing him goodbye, knowing fully well she will come back for more the following day, unable to stay away. She doesn’t want to stay away.

“It’s Christmas break,” he tells her softly as he starts petting her hair. She hums, but it might as well be a purr. “Ruby owns you fifty bucks.”

Emma moves a little to look at him in the eyes, and he raises his eyebrows at her with a grin on his lips. She snorts. “Yeah, that she does.” She bites on her lip, looks at him from underneath her lashes, and she’s certain her cheeks are a little red before she even opens her mouth. “It may be a little premature but… Do you want to go to prom with me and snatch a hundred bucks from Ruby?”

He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners and sparkling with mirth. “I’d love to.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a shameless(ly fluffy) filler before the last one, but too much happened in GeekLand since the beginning of the year from me not to talk about it in the fic!

She sits cross-legged on Killian’s couch and, with the commercial break, turns her head towards the kitchen. She can hear sounds coming from it, mostly doors opening and closing, as well as her boyfriend’s muttered curses.

“It’s starting soon!” she calls after him.

The curses aren’t so muttered anymore. Emma bites down on her lip not to smile too goofily at the number of ‘bloody’ he can put in one sentence, like he’s a character out of a Harry Potter book or something. She focuses back on the television screen just as the microwave starts beeping in the other room, and it’s only a matter of seconds after that before Killian enters the living room.

He hands her the huge bowl of popcorn as well as a glass of coke, before he plops down next to her on the couch. The show starts at the exact same time, and Emma barely contains her squeak of excitement as she jumps on the spot. She doesn’t need to turn her head to know Killian is smirking at her.

“I thought I was the nerd in this relationship.”

She sends him a half-hearted glare. “Marvel movies are way too mainstream to be considered nerdy anymore.”

His smirk widens a bit, and she kind wants to punch his mouth. “Whatever you say.”

She huffs, but Hayley Atwell appears on the screen at the exact same time, and so Emma forgets all about being upset about Killian. She bounces once more, and he chuckles slightly before he steals a handful of popcorn from her bowl.

And okay, yes, maybe it is a tiny bit nerdy to make a party out of watching the pilot episode of Agent Carter together – and maybe she has borrowed more of Killian’s comic books since their first date and the female Thor ones. (And maybe she sleeps with his Marvel t-shirt, but nobody has to know, not even him.) But Emma doesn’t care all that much when it allows her to spend more time with Killian, and when he cares about the stuff she likes as much as she does the stuff he likes.

It’s working really well for them so far, so who cares, really?

They watch the episode in a companionable silence, only broken by a comment or a gasp here and there – the way she sighs dreamily when James D’Arcy appears makes him huff a little, and she swallows down a laugh at the frown that makes its way on his brows, because Killian jealous over an actor is a sight to behold. All in all they have fun, not that Emma expected things to go any other way, and agree to make it a weekly occurrence, because why not.

He walks her home afterwards, and kisses her softly by her front door until her legs turn to jelly and her breath catches in her throat. He smiles when he leaves, and Emma scorns at August when she enters the house to find him spying on them by the window.

And if they text each other for hours once she’s in her room, well…

 

…

 

They go to see The Theory of Everything on a date, half because she likes Eddie Redmayne (“Are British actors your type or…?”) and half because it’s fun to tease Killian about watching a movie about nerds instead of a movie for nerds. He pretends he’s offended, and then he pretends to play it cool by saying that the movie will most likely win an Oscar so it would be interesting to indeed watch it. Emma knows better.

The movie is great, and leaves her eyes a little misty – even if she will deny it with her dying breath because Emma Swan doesn’t cry at the movies – and then Killian grins down at her with that boyish look in his eyes. The looks that says _I have an idea and it’s a very stupid one_ , and Emma braces herself for the worst.

“Well, since you love Eddie Redmayne…” he says as he opens the Youtube application on his phone, and types something in the search bar.

He hands the phone to her when the trailer starts playing, not caring that it’s later at night and they’re standing in the empty street. It’s Storybrooke, after all, the only threat they’re facing right now is getting a cold from the winter wind.

Emma’s eyebrows shoot up as she watches the video playing, eyes widening a little more with each passing second. She doesn’t consider herself an expect in movies in general, mostly because she only watches whatever it is Ruby or Mary Margaret feel like watching when they go out together, but she knows enough to come to one conclusion.

“This looks terrible.”

“I know.”

“Like, really awful.”

“ _I know_ , isn’t it great?”

“I’m not going to see that with you.”

Killian grins, and she knows she’s doomed.

“James D’Arcy is in it.”

Yep, terribly doomed. Show the boy your weaknesses, and he’ll go straight for them when comes the time. She hates him, she really does, and so she sighs. “Okay, fine. I hate you.”

And that’s the story of how Emma finds herself hiding behind a bowl of popcorn, slouching in her seat, as she witnesses the shitshow that is Mila Kunis as a reincarnated princess of the universe. Or something. She lost track of the plot at the same time the plot lost track of the plot, to be honest. She was right, this is terrible – most likely the worst movie she ever watched – but every so often Killian will snort through his nose not to laugh out loud, or share a well-placed comment and. Well. This is kind of entertaining, in its own fucked-up way.

In a very bad way, it reminds her of the bad self-insert fanfictions she used to write when she was younger. (She was young and had a crush on Tom Felton, okay. No one is allowed to judge.)

What makes her really lose it, though, is everything that comes after the movie, when Killian excitingly talks about how _awful_ it was. There are large hand gestures and too many gleeful chuckles involved, and the laugh bubbles out of Emma – a little hysterical, perhaps, tears pearling at the corners of her eyes, but she can’t really stop it once she’s started, and soon Killian joins her.

“That was a terrible date,” she tells him after he’s kissed her goodbye.

She’ll never say it out loud, but that may be her favourite part of their dates, when he walks her home and kisses her soft and lazy in front of her house, smiling against her mouth with his hands on her hips.

“It was a terrible movie. It was a great date,” he replies.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night.”

He stick his tongue out at her before pushing her towards the door, and Emma throws him a falsely affronted look over her shoulder – he replies with a wink, and puts his hands in his pockets before walking away.

(It was a great date. She has fun with him, and she loves that.)

 

…

 

It takes a while before Killian finds his way to her bedroom. Not that Marco refuses for her to have boys in her room, or anything stupidly patriarchal like that, but she doesn’t feel all too comfortable having her boyfriend over when her father and brother are in the house. Because Killian and her in a bedroom always ends in Killian and her without any clothes on, and she doesn’t want that to happen when they’re not alone.

(Bless Liam’s busy schedule, seriously.)

So when August is spending the day at the campus’ library and Marco is out on a job, Emma decides to invite Killian over. Not that she really plans to have sex with him that afternoon – they never plan it, it just happens – but she still feels the tiniest bit anxious about it.

Only Ruby and Mary Margaret, and David that one time, ever came to her room, and so she doesn’t really knows how to act when Killian’s eyes take it all in – the Marilyn Monroe poster above her bed and corkboard frame where she pins all her personal pictures, the plush duckling next to her pillow and all the Harry Potter books on the shelf above her desk.

It feels way too intimate, suddenly, and she’s not exactly sure she can take it. But it’s Killian, too, so he smiles at the pictures of her and her best friends, smiles even wider at the picture of her and him they took not so long ago, and Emma tells herself it’s fine. It’s Killian, and it’s fine.

“Hello, mate,” he says as he grabs the duck and pats its furry head.

She’s sentimental about the thing – not just because it was the first gift he ever gave her, but mostly because it was the first hint that he really did care about her and really did want to make her happy. So yeah, bite her, she’s sentimental about the duck.

“Hey, do you want to watch Daredevil?” he asks her as he settles on her bed, like he belongs. “It’s about a superhero and it’s with Charlie Cox, and I know how you feel about British actors.”

“I hate you”, she huffs, even if she grabs her laptop before taking her place next to him on the bed.

“So you keep telling me.”

They find a comfortable position on the bed that allows them to watch the show with the laptop propped up on Killian’s lap, and then they do just that, opening Netflix and starting with the first episode. She does recognize the lead actor, and complains about his American accent to ruffle Killian’s feathers a bit. He replies with pinching her arm, and she squeaks before hitting his shoulder. It’s all so perfectly domestic, and Emma has no idea why she hated it before.

They watch the first episode, then the second one – blessed be binge-watching – but Killian pauses right before the third one stars. “Do you want to go on?” he asks.

She looks up at him with a grin. “Or we could have sex instead.”

He pretends to hesitate, eyes looking back to the screen, because he’s a little bit of an asshole sometimes. “Yeah, you know what,” he says, and puts aside the laptop. “I like your idea better.”

 

…

 

She’s been dating Killian long enough to know better than to be surprised when he makes a date out of going to see Age of Ultron. She actually expected it to happen, because he’s very transparent that way sometimes. So they see the movie, and then they have burgers at Granny’s, and he lets her steal his French fries even if she has a plate full of onion rings in front of her.

Talking about the movie leads to a debate about the way Black Widow is written into the movies – which, yeah, is more Emma ranting about sexism in Hollywood than it is a real debate, but you know – and Killian explaining the differences with the comic books. Despite her claim a few months ago that the movies are mainstream, Emma has to agree it’s as geeky as conversations go, but she doesn’t find it in herself to mind.

What she minds, though, are the little knowing smiles Granny sends their way from her place behind the counter. She’s as much family as Marco or August are, has seen Emma growing up even since she moved in with her foster father when she was a preteen full of anger, and there’s something soft in Granny’s eyes when she looks Emma’s way tonight. Like she’s proud even if she won’t say so out loud, and Emma sits a little straighter because she’s proud of herself too. She’s no longer the angry kid she used to be, with mile-high walls and deadly glares, and she likes it that way.

“Meal’s on the house, kiddos,” Granny tells them when Killian asks for the bill, and it doesn’t stop Emma from blushing at how obvious the older woman is.

It’s endearing, and a little embarrassing.

(He kisses her goodnight, the way he always does, and she knows he took some of her anger with him, too.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys. The last one!

Saying Emma is nervous would be quite the understatement.

There is some finality in going to prom with Killian, like a rite of passage of sorts – in a few years, looking back to her high school memories, he’ll always be the-boy-she-went-to-prom-with, if anything else. (She hopes he’ll be something else, but you know.) It makes their couple even more official than it already is, somehow, and even if Emma knows she shouldn’t be anxious about a night of dancing on awful music and virgin drinks…

Well, even knowing that, her heart beats a little fast and her hands are clammy as she slips on her dress and brushes her hair. Her fingers tremble a little, the slightest tremor, as she draws a black line over her lids and colours her lips red, and she doesn’t fight it. Lets it overtake her, if only for a few moments. Nervousness is good, it keeps her alert, keeps her mind and her heart aware of how important this is to her.

To them.

She startles at the doorbell ringing downstairs, legs wobbly as she slips on her heels, almost but not quite losing her balance. She presses a hand to her chest, if only because she’s acting quite ridiculous by now, and grabs her purse before making her way downstairs.

Killian is waiting by the front door when her foot lands on the floor and, because of course that moment was meant to be like in the movies, he turns around slowly when he hears her come. Emma bites down on her lip at how handsome he looks in his suit, having retired the glasses for the night and bouncing on his feet with his own share of nervousness. But it’s nothing to the face he makes as his eyes move up and down her body, taking in the red dress that hugs her chest and waist before falling softly against her legs until it stops just shy of her knees.

The dress is a bold statement, she knows, but it has exactly the effect she had hoped for – the red blossoming high on Killian’s cheeks and ears, Adam’s apple bobbling up and down several times. He has seen her in every kind of dress (and undress) through the months, but her blood warms under his appreciative and loving gaze even as he holds a hand out for her to take.

“Perfect as always,” he breathes, and it’s her time to blush, ducking her head a little under his praises. She’s yet to get use to it, that shameless, open way he has to compliment her every chance he gets, having her heart and her ego growing a little bigger with each kind word out of his mouth.

August decides this is perfect timing to play the annoying older brother and pulls her out of her thoughts with an awkward cough, as to remind them that they have been staring at each other for quite some time now. She sends him a smile, as sarcastic as she can muster, then a roll of the eyes when he waves the family camera at her. “Come on, Ems, it’s tradition.”

Killian adds, “Awkward prom picture,” to her ear, and she indeed gives the camera her most awkward smile as she moves around to stand in the cliché pose all teenagers strike for such moments – Killian by her back, hands on her hips. They both burst into a fit of laughter at August’s exasperate sigh, Emma looking at Killian over her shoulder with mirth in her eyes.

In the end, this is that picture they will keep – her smiling up at him with softness on her features and in her eyes as he fights back a grin long enough to press a kiss to her temple. This is that picture she will keep, dearly holding on to it and the memories attached. (She isn’t a sentimental one, but she has her moments.)

Killian then gives her the corsage to put on her wrist (“Come on, Ems, it’s tradition,” in his more horrendous attempt at an American accent) before they leave the house. The drive to school is a quiet, if peaceful one, and they both pretend not to notice Killian’s fingers drumming against the wheel, nor the matching tapping of Emma’s foot.

Thankfully, their nerves ease once they are inside the gymnasium, mostly because they are too busy whispering snarky comments about the decoration choices (nothing but white and blue balloons, seriously) to care about anything else. He offers her a drink, and soon they are joined by Emma’s friends, starting a mindless conversation about the end of the year and their summer plans.

If Mary Margaret and David coming together are a surprise to absolutely no one, ever, Ruby’s choice of date is a little more colourful, if not brazen. Marian looks lovely in her blue dress, but she would look even lovelier if she didn’t stand out like a sore thumb – not only is she from another school altogether, but she also is that-girl-Robin-cheated-on-with-Regina. Surely that will have teenagers talk even more than the fact she’s coming as another girl’s date.

Emma rolls her eyes affectionately at her best friend’s antics, before said best friend pulls her towards the dance floor the moment the first notes of music start playing. She soon finds herself laughing and jumping, and has to offer Killian her most convincing pout as she tugs on both his arms so he joins her in their dancing. He’s bad at it, obviously, but still grins when she wraps her arms around his neck and forces him to follow her moves, albeit gracelessly.

He’s laughing too, and it’s all that matter – she’s breathless and her feet ache, but that smile of his, crooked and dazzling, makes her forget all about the rest. Sometimes she sees him checking above her shoulder before pulling her into a kiss, and she can only chuckle at how careful he is not to be told off by the teachers chaperoning the dance. She rolls her eyes every time, good-heartedly, and he winks at her every time, too.

The music isn’t too bad, a rarity for any kind of social gathering in Storybrooke, and Emma even finds herself screaming the lyrics to Wannabe from the top of her lungs with her best friend, under the falsely exasperated looks of their dates. Still, nothing prepared her for Killian holding a finger in front of him, asking for her to wait on the spot, before he disappears through the crowd of sweaty teenagers.

He makes his way towards the DJ, and leans forwards to whisper-yell something at the man, before they exchange a thumb-up. He’s back by her side a few moments later, and it doesn’t take long for the song to finish and for his request to be played. She recognizes it with the first notes, and can only hide a groan and her blush with her hands to her face, turning even so slightly so she’s no longer facing him.

Still Killian holds his hand out to her, and she can only fall into his embrace as Adele starts crooning the lyrics of Make you feel my life. Even as she wraps her arms around his neck and lets Killian hold her close, Emma knows it is a perfectly deliberate choice – remembers their heated, snarky conversation back in September all too well. Of course he would go and rub it in her face, she thinks with a scoff as she leans her forehead against his shoulder.

She can’t be mad at him for it, though, not when his thumb draws circles on her lower back and the song hits a little too close to him. She doesn’t even think of being mad as him as she snuggles a little more closely and lets him tightens his hold on her. Instead, she closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy the slow rhythm of their dancing, fingers idly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and heart beating in synch with his.

She feels at ease that way, in the warmth of his arms and the comfort of his love. So at ease indeed that Emma can only draw back a little, if only to look at him in the eyes. She can’t make out the blue of his iris in the dim light of the gymnasium, but his eyes are open as always, emotions dancing in his gaze. Her stomach clenches at the sight, her heart ready to burst out of her ribcage.

Instead, there are words tumbling out of her mouth, words she’s been toying with for so long that it only makes sense to say them now – to embrace them as much as she embraces the meaning of them.

“I’m in love with you.”

His grin is bigger, brighter, even if the confession was barely whispered, swallowed down by the music and conversations. His grin turns into something else, too, as he leans to brush his mouth to hers in the softest of caress.

“Good thing I’m in love with you, too.”

She may be grinning too – big and goofy, but mostly happy. Oh so happy. She’s grinning and she’s kissing him, dragging him down to her with a hand on his neck, chaperons be damn as he deepens the kiss with a groan at the back of his throat.

(Later, Mr Hopper has to tap Killian on the shoulder when his hands start wandering down her body, the teacher as flustered as they are when asking them not to make a scene. They nod, faking sheepishness, before Killian takes her hand and she follows him outside. Her body pressed between his and the wall of the gymnasium, she welcomes his mouth to hers and his wandering hands beneath her dress.)

(Later, much later, they’ll ask Ruby for the hundred dollars, and laugh at her affronted face, at the way she will accuse them of cheating, of playing against the rules, of being unfair. Still, she will give the money, in the end, grumbling something that may sound like a curse.)

(Killian takes her to a restaurant out of town, one with two golden stars beneath the name on the door. A hundred dollars for food may be a little decadent, but they have fun at playing pretend, at being this posh little couple, if only for one evening.)

(Later, much later, she’ll thank her good star for letting Ruby drag her into that stupid bet of hers.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for your kudos and comments, it means the world to me!  
> Now if you're interested by whatever I have to offer in terms of modern AU for those two losers, I will start working more regularly on Her crowning glory. I also have another Lieutenant Duckling fic in the making, so stay tuned if you don't want to miss it!


	20. coda

The two envelops arrive on the same day in the mailbox, heavy cream paper and elegant typewriting – Emma snorts through her nose before she even opens hers, the logo of Storybrooke High in the corner enough to tell her exactly what the content of both missives is. She grabs her phone in the back pocket of her jeans and types a simple ‘ _wanna go to prom, champ?_ ’ that she sends with a press of the thumb.

The answering text arrives moments later, an equally concise ‘ _Will they play Adele songs?_ ’ that has her laugh out loud as she rips the envelop open to read the invitation card.

And it’s what she expected alright – high school reunion, ten years later – so her eyes dart to the date before she checks the calendar on her phone, just to make sure. The reunion is in two month’s time, too far away in the future for Emma to have anything scheduled, but it seems to be a weekend off for Killian so she puts a reminder there and then moves around the apartment to turn on her laptop and book the plane tickets.

It’s weird, thinking about going back now – she and August all but ran away once the house was sold, Marco’s death the perfect excuse never to set foot in this town ever again – but it’s exciting too in ways she can’t exactly explain. Perhaps because she hasn’t seen her friends in a very long time, only the odd phone call and Skype session as they drifted apart through the years.

Killian comes home – _home_! – when she’s still browsing through American Airline’s website, and he drops a kiss on the top of her head before navigating through the kitchen to pour himself a drink of milk. She smiles softly as she books two tickets, New York-Portland and fourth, a shiver of excitation running down her spine.

 

…

 

All their clothes and things fit in a carry-on bag, since they only planned to spend the week-end – Killian’s first class on Monday is at 8, after all – and Emma can’t help but think how disgustingly domestic they are as they pass the security check without a hitch. They even rent a car and everything, which has her roll her eyes more than once until they drive away from the airport.

The radio plays some jazzy song, Killian humming under his breath along with the tune, and Emma taps the rhythm with her finger against the wheel. Everything around her – the road and the landscape and everything – seems familiar and foreign at once, which leaves her confused with every passing mile.

She glances Killian’s way once in a while, just to be sure. He has that lost, misty look in his eyes as he looks at the landscape, and she bites her lip. It’s not easy for her, to come back, but it’s even worse for him – the house left empty and abandoned even since Liam’s accident at sea, ever since the funeral. Coming back perhaps isn’t the best of ideas, with all those ghosts still haunting the little town.

The pros had surpassed the cons, though – excitement at seeing their friends again weighting against the heaviness of the past. It’s only one weekend. They have this.

At least that’s what she tells herself when she parks behind Granny’s and gets out of the car. Killian follows, out and then inside, carrying the bag and looking around him like a deer that’s been caught in the highlights. She smiles and squeezes his free hand as she asks for the keys to their room. The boy behind the desk is one she doesn’t remember ever seeing in town, but he’s in his early twenties so it’s not really surprising. Granny always liked to hire teens and students to give them a little boost in life.

“Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” Killian asks once they’re in the room.

Emma wrinkles her nose at that as she opens her bag and pulls out the dress she will wear tonight – black and simple, nothing fancy since she has no one to impress. When she looks up at him, he makes a face too, and she laughs a little.

“Last time we were here, Granny told us she doesn’t rent by the hour.”

It works. He laughs out loud, head tilt back and mouth open, and shakes his head with a roll of the eyes. “ _Prom_ ,” he says dramatically, and Emma joins him in his laughs.

Prom night seems eons away – ten years, for fuck’s sake – but she still remembers it clearly. Remembers Granny’s face when Killian has asked, very seriously despite being wasted for the first time in his life, if they could rent a room for the night as she kept giggling in his neck, high on alcohol and bad music and love. She doesn’t remember much of the night in itself beside the itchy sheets and the most embarrassingly short heavy petting session known to earth.

All in all, a pretty great night.

Emma smirks at the memories as she pulls on the dress and turns her back to Killian so he can zip it up. The familiar shiver runs down her spine at his knuckles brushing against her bare skin, and she downright giggles when he drops a kiss to the nape of her neck. He doesn’t need a new outfit, just shrugs into a clean shirt and mess with his hair a little, while she checks her eyeliner and applies a new coat of red lipstick to her lips.

It’s as lazy as it goes but, then again – they have no one to impress, no past lover to conquer or enemy to make jealous. Just them and their high school friends for an evening of merriment.

Gosh, she hopes there will be booze this time.

(Authorized booze.)

She tells Killian as such and he laughs again, before he takes her hand and drags her out of the room. Storybrooke’s streets are unsurprisingly empty as they make their way to the old school, and Emma has fun pointing out ever back alley where they made out as horny teenagers – Killian’s ears turn pink in a second, and it’s so endearing she has to stop and kiss his cheek because, god.

Music can be heard from outside as they make it to the old gymnasium, and Emma winces in advance knowing she’ll have to do with Storybrooke High’s weird tastes in music for one more night. She rolls her eyes at the Madonna song that starts playing as they stop at the entrance to pick their nametags – rolls her eyes even more at the woman batting her eyelashes at a clueless Killian. That’s kind of adorable, really.

She’s about to ask him if he wants something to drink when a shrilling scream startles them both. Emma laughs in surprise, even more so when Ruby – Ruby, in all her high heels and short skirt glory – pounces on them with another scream. One that may or may not sound like, “You fucking nerd!”

She hugs Emma quickly before turning to Killian, and punches him, both closed fists against his chest. “Look at you, all muscular and shit! My girl was so right to invest in you.”

“I’m standing right there, Rubs,” Emma replies. Can’t hide the laugh in her voice.

“I know, isn’t it great?” Ruby pulls her into another hug, for good measure, and Killian raises both his eyebrows behind the brunette’s back, having Emma smirk in reply. “Now, come, come, come. The Nolans are over there.”

_The Nolans_.

It feels weird, really, but good too. She had missed her friends, had missed Ruby’s energy and the familiarity of their conversations, how right it feels to be by her side. And, as she hugs Mary Margaret, she realises she had missed her too, all quiet and soft and comforting – she had missed her mom friend, so much it hurts a little. (A lot.)

“I’m glad to see you,” Mary Margaret tells Killian before she hugs him.

Lots of hugs. Hugs for everyone.

“Aye, me too,” he replies – always the soft spot for the tiny brunette.

David soon pops out of nowhere with more red solo cups than he can carry, grinning at them and winking at Emma. Fatherhood suits him – suits them both, actually, but no surprise there – and he carries himself with a newfound pride despite the exhaustion at the corners of his eye and the smudge of baby vomit on his collar. Emma admires them for it, really.

Admires them so much that she’s startled when Ruby grabs her hand and glares at it, then at Killian. “Where’s the ring?”

“There’s no ring,” Emma replies simply.

“What.” It doesn’t sound like a question. “You guys are almost as disgusting as those two there.”

(“Hey,” Mary Margaret complains without heat.)

“We’re not getting married.”

“Mickey and Minnie never got married,” Killian chimes in. The fucking nerd. “They were fine.”

“They’re _mice_.”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

Emma snorts into her cheap beer as he wraps an arm around her shoulders as to prove his point, all smug proud and raised eyebrows against Ruby’s opened mouth. It’s really hard not to laugh – their friends in New York don’t care about those things, but Storybrooke is conservative that way so she isn’t surprised their lack of marital status would make waves. She just didn’t expect it from Ruby of all people but how well.

Ruby is nothing if unpredictable.

She clicks her tongue, all annoyed, before David starts a new topic with a roll of the eyes of his own – something about his twin being there too, so he apologizes in advance for all the shitty things James will do. It makes Emma snorts a little, and she relaxes in Killian’s embrace, leaning against his chest as she sips the cheap, lukewarm beer from her cup. The conversation flows easily from there, just the five of them – an old friend come to greet them every so often, but they’re good keeping to their own for now.

That is, until Mary Margaret decides it is time to dance, and so Killian raises an eyebrow at her as he offers her his hand. Emma huffs a bit, for the heck of it, and mouth ‘Adele?’ even as she lets him drag her to the dance-floor. She wraps her hand around his neck, careful to keep a safe distance between them, and Killian laughs before pulling her to him with his hand on the small of her back.

Emma grins into his collarbone as she leans her forehead against his shoulder and – yes, it feels like prom all over again, with less glasses and more muscles. She can’t complain about that, even if she likes it best when he doesn’t wear his contacts, something adorable about his baby blue eyes behind the heavy frames of his glasses.

She shares another dance with Killian before David forces her to dance a Lindi Hop with him (the disaster), and then comes the obligatory Spice Girls song that has Ruby running towards her like her life depends of it, Mary Margaret close behind. Emma laughs and screams from the top of her lungs, jumping until her ankles hurt. She’s out of breath before the second verse and, when the song finally ends, all but collapses against Killian’s chest with a chuckle at the corner of her lips.

He laughs too, and pulls her to him so she doesn’t fall. “Let’s take a break,” he tells her, mouth close to her ear so she can hear him above the music.

Emma nods against his collarbone, expecting him to lead her towards their table. Instead, he laces his fingers with her and walks towards a corner of the gymnasium. With a finger to his lips (dork), he opens the door, the one leading towards the main building.

“Oh my, Mister Jones,” she fake-whispers. “A true criminal.”

He pouts at her, mirth dancing in his eyes, as the door closes behind them, muffling the music a little. The hallway is dark, only illuminated by the red exit lights – it gives the place an atmosphere out of a horror movie, not that Emma minds all that much. She likes how illegal it feels, too, like they will be sent to the principal’s office for trespassing if they get caught.

A snort escapes her lips when they stop in front of one door in particular, and Killian points at the keyhole with a flourish of the hand. “If you could do us the honour,” he asks her in his most pompous voice, and she fights the urge to slap the back of his head.

Instead, she kneels in front of the lock, and raises her hands to her hair so she can use one of the bobby pins keeping her hair up. She hasn’t done it in ages – not without the right tools, at least, because breaking into places is part of her job – and so it takes her a while before she hears the telltale ‘click’ that comes with an opening lock.

She throws Killian a victorious grin, one he mirrors as he grabs her hand to pull her to her feet. He kicks the door open, shelves after shelves of books coming into view despite the darkness of the library. It still smells the same, and Emma closes her eyes as she takes a deep breath once she has stepped inside.

When she opens her eyes again, Killian is already by the other side of the room, walking towards the familiar table like he owns the place. Emma allows her eyes to travel down to his backside before she grins a little. “Is it still there?” she asks him when he stops in front of their table.

Killian bends forwards, fingers brushing against the edge of the table. He laughs a little, a throaty chuckle, as his fingers find the engraving there – nothing but a cheesy ‘E + K 2015’ she had done with her scissors on the last day of school because she liked the idea of claiming the table as their own.

She sits on the table, feet kicking in the air, before she points to the History section of the library with her finger. “This is where I asked you out.”

Killian breathes a little ‘awww’ but the sarcasm of his tone doesn’t fit the grin on his lips as he nudges her knees apart to stand between her legs. Emma raises an eyebrow as she grabs the buckle of his belt to pull him closer to her.

“I had fantasies about this,” he tells her, so serious Emma can only laugh out loud.

“People will notice if we’re gone for too long.”

“We can make it quick.”

“Don’t I know it,” she teases, relishing in his offended face before she grabs him by the collar to crash his lips to hers.

It is hurried and hungry and – yeah, maybe she had fantasies about that too. She moans into the kiss when he bites down on her bottom lip, and leans on her arms so he can bundle the skirt of her dress up and around her hips. He pulls her to him in one swift move, laughing against her mouth when their hips collide. She feels like a teenager again, hiding in dark corners for a quickie, and it’s almost embarrassing how wet she is already from just making out.

If the sound he makes at the back of his throat when his fingers slip under her underwear is anything to go by, Killian doesn’t mind in the least. She tells him to shut up while her fingers fumble with his belt, opening his pants just enough to slid them down his hips. They aren’t looking for finesse here anyway, so this will work just fine – especially when Killian wastes no time shrugging her off her underwear until it hangs by her ankle, before he aligns his hips with her.

She smirks into his mouth as her hands move to grab his ass, pulling him forcefully towards him. It does the job, both of them groaning at the feeling of him inside her, stretching her delightfully. They make quick work of it from there, despite Emma’s earlier protests, Killian’s fingers finding her clit easily while his other hand cling to her hair.

It’s hurried and passionate and all kinds of wrongs – his teenager self would have blushed so hard at even the thought of doing it. But Emma can’t say she minds, not when she has to bite down on his shoulder, just to muffle her moans. He rubs at her clit more vigorously when her breathing starts being more laboured, hips in rhythm with the movement of his fingers. It’s too much and not enough at once, so she pulls him into another kiss, loses herself in the feelings of his tongue against her.

Anybody could catch them – they’re neither discreet nor silent, door still wide open, the slap of skin against skin mixing with their moans and groans. It adds to the thrill of it, to the feeling of how wrong it is, and that thought alone tips Emma over the edge. She sees white and stars as she moans into his neck, clinging to his ass like her life depends of it.

Killian follows a few second later, with her name on his lips and his hand in her hair. They stare at each other for long moments, breathing hitching every so often, before Emma starts giggling like the schoolgirl she hasn’t been in a very long time. Killian laughs with her as he fishes for a tissue in the pocket of his pants, cleaning her up quickly.

“This is so wrong,” he tells her – a flash of the nerdy little virgin behind the newfound swagger – and Emma snorts a little. She leans into his touch when he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiles when he brushes his lips to hers; such a sharp contrast between the softness of this kiss and what they just did.

“Is teenager you happy right now?”

“Present me is happy right now.”

She laughs once more, and jumps off the table to shrug back into her underwear and smooth her dress down. She has no doubt a single glance at the both of them will be enough to know what they’ve been up to – his glassy eyes and her pink cheeks, both a little too sweaty for their own good – but Emma doesn’t find it in herself to mind when they leave the library and close the door behind them.

Ruby snorts into her beer when they come back to their table.

Killian high-fives her.

(Some things _truly_ never change.)

Things settle down after that. The girls decide to dance some more, Killian and David dragging their feet even as they follow. Ruby even manages to convince Graham Humbert to dance with her – he must have forgotten how horrific dating her was, bless his soul – and it goes downhill from there with all their old friends. Emma finds herself in a conversation with Kathelyn, even if she’s never spoken to the woman during their high school years, and she shares a drink with Jack, who is apparently married to James now. ( _This_ is disturbing on so many levels, she just elects to ignore it.)

The DJ slowly but surely makes sure the songs become less and less energetic as time passes by, and it’s well past 2 in the morning when the old janitor basically has to kick them out of the school. They say goodbye to the Nolans and then follow Ruby back to the diner, promising they will share breakfast together the following morning before leaving for the airport.

Emma barely shrugs out of her dress before she’s face-planting on the bed with a groan of satisfaction. Killian chuckles a little, but he sounds exhausted too, and he soon joins her in bed in nothing more than his boxers. Emma lets him manhandle her until they’re snuggling, her back against his chest and his arm around her waist.

He kisses her shoulder with a smile, then yawns a little. “No Adele song tonight.”

“The utter disappointment.”


End file.
